Bound
by Celia Stanton
Summary: A series of unconnected vignettes, drabbles and double drabbles. Latest update: a short challenge piece.
1. Rain Dance

_Disclaimer: The characters herein do not belong to me. This story is meant purely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended._

_Author's Notes: The following stories are going to be unconnected vignettes/ficlets, drabbles (100 words) and double drabbles (200 words). Some will be in response to certain prompts/challenges._

_I've never done anything like this before, so I'd love to hear what you all think._

_Thank you for being my guinea pigs in this experiment! :)_

* * *

She wanted the rain.

She wanted to tilt her head back and feel the drops as they cascaded down her face, replacing the tears she'd seemed to cry since her journey had begun. She wanted to shiver as the water ran gloriously down the back of her neck and beneath her shirt, because her shudders would no longer be borne of fear. She wanted to feel the hydration on her lips, as though it were a kiss from the heavens, welcoming her home. She wanted to feel the soaked grass and the muddied soil beneath her bare feet as it bound her, reminded her of her place in the world.

She wanted to see her reflection in the puddles before she jumped in them, sending ripples through them as she did everything else. She wanted the splashing of the water to complement her childlike, delighted cries as she skipped from place to place, laughing freely for the first time in ages.

She wanted one great, big thunderclap, a final explosion banishing the darkness to the ends of the earth. She wanted brilliant lightning to blind her, and all those who had suffered, so they could not see what had been damaged and what could not be repaired.

She wanted gusts of wind to expel the remaining sights and smells of the final battle at the tower. She wanted sharp breezes to blow away the lingering clouds of explosives, along with the residual smell of gunpowder, lead and loss.

She wanted a baptism—not one of fire, as she'd endured since being dropped in the O.Z.—but wanted to feel her sins, her past, her failures wash away with the torrents.

Oh, how she wanted the rain.

She kept close to the windows in the palace, keeping watch from dusk till dawn, scanning the horizon for any sign of the cleansing she wanted, that she needed, that her family and friends deserved.

The sound of the first drop hitting the pane settled an indescribable excitement in her stomach. Its brothers and sisters quickly followed suit, marching themselves down the glass as though part of a parade arranged in her honor. She closed her eyes and listened to the rapping of the beads as they sang to her, a familiar tune so soothing it reminded her of her mother's lullaby.

The thunder, the lightning and the wind rounded out the symphony, harmonizing with the rain in a way even the greatest composers could not orchestrate.

As she dashed from the castle, she thought back to a quote she'd heard in a movie once: _God is in the rain._

This storm certainly proved it. As the downpour tumbled over her lithe frame, she felt God, Ozma, Allah, Yahweh, Ishvara and Vishnu surround and embrace her, warming her despite the cold of the drops themselves.

She stood with her arms outstretched, head tilted back, eyes closed. She wanted to be enveloped by the tempest, every inch of her body and soul purified.

She heard her mother cry out that she'd catch her death standing in her bedclothes, and that simply wouldn't _do_, as they had quite a busy schedule planned for the next morning.

She heard her father only laugh.

She heard Glitch wonder over and over when it had started raining, until Raw placed a hand on his shoulder in an effort to stop the misfiring synapses.

She heard Cain grumble about the lack of security in the courtyard, how she was too exposed like this, and how she had to be the one missing her marbles for standing out here and letting herself get soaked to the bone.

She heard the squishing of her sister's feet in the garden as Azkadellia came to stand beside her in the torrent.

She felt warm even before they joined hands.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she asked, her words mixing with rainwater in her mouth.

"The most beautiful thing I've ever seen," her sister confirmed.

The glorious rain lasted for almost thirty minutes. The sisters stood in the courtyard, happily welcoming and dancing among the long-awaited drops, until the final guest had bid them goodnight.

When it was over, she heaved a deep breath, inhaling the cleanliness. She felt it prickle her skin and her heart as it worked through her veins, as well as the O.Z..

She felt rejuvenated. She felt purified.

She'd never felt so alive.

FIN


	2. Unruhe

Disclaimer: The characters herein are not mine. This story is meant purely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Unruhe means unrest in German. This drabble was written for Tinman100 community on Livejournal. The prompt was 'hush'.

* * *

Azkadellia had not cried since the Eclipse.

Ghosts were her constant companions. They told their names, of lives so horrifically destroyed, of infinite unrest. She would not allow herself peace until they found theirs.

She did not cry because they were hunted by her in life, and she should be haunted by their deaths.

She did not cry because there was nothing to say when she did. Her mother would have said, "Hush, my child, you're safe." Her sister would have said, "It's okay. Time heals everything."

She did not cry because she knew they would be lying.


	3. Language

_Disclaimer: The characters herein do not belong to me. This story is meant purely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended._

_Rating: PG-13 for strong language._

_Author's Notes: This is my first ever drabble attempt. Be kind. :)_

_Prompt from Tinman100 community on Livejournal. The prompt was 'hush'._

* * *

"Damn it!"

"Language, Princess."

"Shit!"

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"I don't think they heard you in the Western Mountains. You need to project from your diaphragm."

"Why are you just standing there again?"

"If I remember rightly, you threatened to shut me up permanently if I corrected you again."

"Well, that was before I realized you need a physics degree to work this contraption."

"Are you asking for my help?"

"Oh, hush up, Wyatt Cain, and get your ass over here."

"It would probably help if you faced the saddle the right way."


	4. Red Handed

_Dislcaimer: The characters herein are not mine. No infringement is intended._

_This is a double drabble (200 words, according to Microsoft Word)._

* * *

"What in the O.Z. were you _thinking_?"

It was a refrain DG knew as well as her own name. Under normal circumstances, she would have ducked her head, feigned embarrassment, and solemnly promised never, ever to do whatever she had done again.

These were not normal circumstances.

They'd been caught. Red-handed. By her _mother._

"Well?" The Queen prompted.

"Laundry mix-up," DG finally lied.

"Pardon?" Her mother arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"The maids must have given me Mr. Cain's laundry by mistake. I was so tired after dealing with the Eastern Guilds today that I didn't notice what I was changing into."

"I'm sure, Your Majesty, that the princess never intended to be seen in her nightclothes. It was pure coincidence that an alarm was raised this evening, and that she had to evacuate so quickly," Cain added.

"A coincidence."

"Yes, ma'am."

Lavender seemed unconvinced, but said, "Very well. I shall speak with the staff to ensure this does not happen again."

They could not flee fast enough.

In the hall, Cain kissed DG soundly, murmuring huskily, "You look damn good in nothing but my shirt, princess."

"I look even better out of it."

"I know."

"Bed?"

"Yours or mine?"

FIN


	5. Shades of Grey

_Disclaimer: The characters and situations herein are not mine. No infringement is intended._

* * *

_Run, run, as fast as you can..._

The mantra in her head was the only sensible thought she'd had for what seemed like an eternity. She heeded the suggestion as impetus to keep charging through the woods, praying the crunching of the leaves beneath her bare feet would not give away her location.

She heard her bodyguard order the search party to fan out and find the wayward princess, and she doubled her efforts, trying to put as much distance between herself and the searchers. If—when—they found her, she'd still be as lost as ever. She didn't want to go back to that; didn't want to hear, or think, or decide.

She just wanted to run.

She knew her parents would be scared to death that something terrible had happened. She knew her sister would insist on being part of the search party, and would defy any order to stay put, no matter how dangerous life outside the palace walls had become. She knew Cain would be downright _livid._

And so she ran.

Her legs gave out in the middle of the forest, and she grabbed hold of a knotty root protruding from the ground. She eased herself to the forest floor, good hand tightening around the bark. Her nightdress was torn; her hands and feet were scratched, bloody and swollen.

She leaned her dark hair against the tree trunk and looked up at the darkened sky. The foliage was so dense this deeply in the forest that she could barely make out any of the constellations; not that she'd have been able to name them anyway. The stars twinkled merrily above her as though in greeting. The leaves rustled beside her as well, as though they had just noticed their visitor and welcomed her, making room for her in their humble abode.

The rustling became more deliberate crunching, and she realized it was because the leaves were being flattened and crushed by horse hooves. She scrambled into a standing position, and hid herself behind the widest trunk she could find. She prayed no one could hear her deep, shuddering breaths, and she placed a dirty hand over her mouth to stifle the sounds.

The clack of the horse's hooves stopped after a few minutes, and she could hear two voices speaking quietly. _Please let them just go away,_ she prayed. _Please just let them allow me peace and privacy, even if only for a few minutes._

As they always were, her pleas were ignored. She heard distinct sets of footsteps approaching her position. Her eyes widened and her heart sank when they stopped, and she saw a light begin to illuminate her surroundings.

"Az?"

She said nothing, choosing to remain stark still, barely breathing.

"It's just me. Well, and Cain, too, but he's with the horses. I just want to make sure you're okay, Az."

Azkadellia couldn't control a derisive snort at the comment. "Never been better, little sister."

"Will you please come out from wherever you are? My hand's burning from this damn light, and I feel like Pocahontas talking to Grandmother Willow."

Az chuckled darkly, but moved from within the brambles, stepping into a slot of moonlight to face her sister.

"Much better," DG replied, lowering her hand and stopping the beam of light that had come from her palm. She rubbed her reddened hand against the fabric of her pajama pants before she addressed her sister again. "Half the palace guard is looking for you right now."

"I know." There was no remorse in her voice.

"They all think you've gone to Finaqua."

"Why would they think that?"

"Maybe they got an anonymous tip." Even in the darkness of the night ravaged forest, Azkadellia could see the glint in her sister's eye.

The elder princess took a step toward her sister. "Still protecting me?"

The mirth on DG's face disappeared like sand beneath a wave. "Always, Az. You know that."

"You shouldn't."

DG awkwardly adjusted the sling around her arm before addressing her sister again. "We've been _over_ this. I told you I wasn't letting go. I have no intention of doing it now, or ever. Get used to it."

Azkadellia stepped more fully into the clearing in which her sister was standing. "I nearly killed you today. I lost control."

"Everybody does occasionally. It's not the end of the world."

"I felt like her again."

That stopped her sister cold. "What?"

"What happened in the library _wasn't_ an accident, DG. I was angry, furious, frustrated. So I used my magic to break those windows. I used my magic to throw the shards at you, and Cain, and Mother, because I was so angry at you." She dipped her chin to her chest in despair and embarrassment. "I haven't felt that kind of fury since before the Eclipse. But it was there, and it was strong. As strong as it's ever been."

"You're not the Witch." DG strode purposefully next to her sister, using her good arm to turn the older woman to face her.

"DG, the Witch didn't possess me fully. Elements of my personality blended into hers. Everybody assumes that the viciousness of what she did, the hatred with which she did it—they think it was all her, all Dark Magic. That's not correct. I was fully aware of what she was doing. Her strength was fueled by my rage, my wrath. _That's_ what made her—us—so powerful."

DG said nothing, her good hand fiddling with the hem of the men's button-down shirt she was wearing. "Do you still want to hurt me?" she asked after a long minute. The sounds of the forest stopped, as though the creatures, the wind and the moonlight waited with bated breath to hear the answer.

"No," Az replied, anguish lacing her voice. "But today proved that I _could_ hurt you, if I lost control again. What happens the next time, when Cain's not there to get you out of harm's way? I'm a menace to my own family, Deege. I can't bear the thought that I might hurt you."

"So, what? You think she left some residual Dark Magic inside you and you could snap at any moment?"

"Yes." The vehemence and certainty with which Azkadellia answered profoundly shocked DG. "I still feel her inside me sometimes. Call it conscience, a little voice in the back of your head, the devil on your shoulder, whatever; for me, it's _her_. She'll never go away."

"And that's why you want to leave."

"That way, when the Dark comes through, there won't be anybody in harm's way."

"Except you."

"I don't matter."

"The hell you don't!" DG's voice carried well beyond the forest, and the older princess winced, knowing her sister had just given away their location. "You mean more to me than anything else in this world, or _any_ world, for that matter. Don't you forget it."

"I think your Wyatt might disagree with you on that, little sister."

"Don't change the subject, Azkadellia." DG stood toe to toe with her sister, the flashing lightning behind her blue eyes the only light in the clearing. "The truth is, you're going to get angry. You're going to want to lose control. Everybody does. What makes you different from the Witch is that you can step back when you realize you're doing it. You can consciously bring your Light to the forefront and make sure the Dark doesn't bleed through. It won't be easy. It'll be messy and people are going to get hurt. But that's just life, Az."

"You don't understand, DG." Az shook her head, trying to rid her eyes of the threatening tears. "I feel like there's a constant battle between Light and Dark inside me. I'm a shade of grey—no definition, no clear-cut sense of _anything_. It's like…it's like I'm lost in a mist, and I'm being pulled in two different directions, down two different paths, both of which I don't trust."

"We're all like that," DG repeated, reaching for her sister's hand. "Every one of us, magical or not, we have good and evil living inside us. They're polar opposites, but they adapt, and try to live harmoniously the best they can. We all have good days and bad days. You're not unique, Az."

With a sigh, the elder princess sat on a tree stump. "I've never seen Mother so frightened."

"I think she thought the Witch had come back somehow, that she'd lost you again."

Az shook her head again. "No. I scared her because I _wasn't_ the Witch. I was just her daughter, and I still became violent."

"It'll get better, Az. It's not going to be easy, but it'll get better."

Azkadellia forced a smile to her face and began to toe at the leaf-covered forest floor.

DG eased herself onto the ground next to the stump. "What a pair of daughters we are. One breaks floor-to-ceiling palace windows and the other is sleeping with her bodyguard. We should get tattoos and belly piercings and really mess with their heads."

Azkadellia's unexpected, genuine laughter stunned both girls and the crickets in the forest, who stopped their chirping at the sound.

When they quieted, and the crickets' symphony began to play again, DG asked quietly, "Do you want me to stay with you a little longer?"

Azkadellia shook her head. "No. I'll be fine. You go back to bed. Tell Wyatt I'm sorry I bothered him in the middle of the night."

"He wasn't exactly sleeping."

"Oh!" Azkadellia covered her ears. "I do not need to know that, little sister, now or ever."

DG just grinned. "I'll tie your horse to a tree in the first clearing. Think you can make your way back on your own?"

Azkadellia nodded. "I'll be home soon."

DG leaned up and kissed her sister's forehead. "I love you, Az."

"I love you, too, baby sister. Now go."

She watched her sister make her way through the brush, and as the first sun started its ascent to bid the world good morning, she saw Cain tenderly lift DG onto the thoroughbred before settling himself behind her, wrapping a strong arm around the brunette's waist. The Tin Man kissed his princess's cheek before urging the steed back toward the palace.

Azkadellia waited ten minutes before going to her horse, untying it, and galloping in the opposite direction.

FIN


	6. Relevant

_This vignette/ficlet/whatever-et was written in response to Quote Challenge Two on the Livejournal community tmchallenge. The challenge was to include the 'knucklehead' quote, and to have Glitch/Ambrose as the speaker. It's a definite change from what I'm used to writing, but I hope y'all like it anyway._

_As always, the characters herein do not belong to me. No infringement is intended._

_And this is for Beebo, who checked all the other stories and was miffed they weren't all dedicated to her. :)_

* * *

The laboratory was rusted at all angles, from the tools left to oxidize in his absence, to the grit and grime covering the windows that once allowed him the most breathtaking view of the O.Z. magic could ever offer. The memories, too, had tarnished along with his equipment.

As he stepped inside, he remembered many experiments gone wrong, including one unfortunate explosion that singed his eyebrows and blackened his face enough that it sent young Azkadellia screaming from his office to alert her mother that some monster had taken over Ambrose's lab.

But it was his successes that welcomed him as he stepped further into the perfectly square room. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth of accomplishment rush over him like a waterfall. He recalled sitting at his little corner desk, pencil tapping against the wood, as he thought of all he could do to help his homeland, and his Queen. So many ideas, so little time.

He had to laugh at his arrogance that defined his time when he was fully and solely Ambrose. He remembered harshly correcting an apprentice when the young boy had dared question his latest invention. "I can create stuff out of nothingness. I can alter the fabric of reality. So please, quit being a knucklehead," he'd said, standing proudly at attention, brass buttons on his uniformed shined perfectly so that both the light of the sun and the light from the house of Gale shone to their fullest extent.

He walked around the now dingy laboratory, fingers running through dust and memories. He'd been of use then, the man with both the relevant questions and corresponding answers. He'd tried to make the O.Z. a better place, but this lab, this person he used to be, had been corrupted.

The tender feeling flew from the room as though sucked out by a vacuum as he sat down on his rickety stool. The chair's legs caught in the warped wood of the floor, and he teetered on the precipice, again wondering if there was anything for him to go back to.

He rather liked being Glitch, who was quick with a smile and a laugh. Glitch had friends, people who cared about him. He may not have been the smartest man, but he'd proved himself both loyal and useful. Ambrose, on the other hand, only had his work. He was bound by duty, not friendship or love.

His sigh rustled leftover papers that had scattered during the war torn years, and one fluttered to the floor. He reached over to pick it up, and as he held it in his shaking hand, he realized it was the last thing DG had ever given him.

It hurt him deep inside that neither of them remembered it.

She'd loved to hide in his office, skipping lessons with Tutor, asking endless questions about his latest inventions. She sat on the rickety stool back when it did not shake, legs swinging freely in anticipation and giddy childhood wonder as he told her of ideas and theories she could not possibly understand. But her smile and eyes were bright and engaging, and even though he knew she should be elsewhere, and even though she could be quite bothersome, he found he could not deny her anything. So she'd stay, sticky fingers smudging his drawings, chubby fingers breaking his evenly sharpened pencils.

In return, she'd leave him little tokens, drawings of the two of them hunched over blueprints or a microscope. He found it charming that they were always smiling.

Always side by side. Always equals.

They may have been fifteen annuals older, fifteen annuals past this place, but not much had changed.

Ambrose had always liked order and the familiar. In this instance, Glitch found himself agreeing with the other half of his brain.

He let the picture drop to the desktop and patted it lovingly. He took one last, long look around the remnants of a relevant life, the reminders of memories long gone, and smiled.

He said his goodbye as the door clicked softly behind him.


	7. Silent House

_Written for LJ's Tinman100 community. The prompt was 'tragic'._

_The title (and inspiration) come from the Dixie Chicks song of the same name._

_I own neither the song or the characters/situations listed herein._

* * *

The quiet used to be soothing solace, shielding her from a tempestuous world.

Now it was a tragic reminder that the joyous squeals of two little girls playing, learning, living, laughing, growing, were a long time gone.

Now the silence was death incarnate to her.

She used to curl up on DG's bed every night, inhaling the scent still lingering on the pillows. She ordered herself to burn the memories of her old life into her brain before they too slipped away.

She'd hang on to those memories as she had not been able to hang on to her children.


	8. Blink

_Notes: As much as I love the angst, I needed to cleanse my palate after "No Humans Allowed" and "Silent House", so here's my version of fluff. _

_The characters herein are not mine. This story is meant only for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended._

_Thanks to Alamo Girl for the ever fabulous facepalm-reducing discerning eye._

* * *

Seemingly innocuous moments truly define the depth of a relationship. They tether the unbound, light what is dark, define the unspeakable.

They clatter on as a projector, sliding frame by frame, so quickly that the motion is background noise, and the snapshots barely pass into conscious comprehension.

Blink and you'll miss them.

The depth of a relationship is found in the wordless ease of a breakfast eaten before either sun is up, where coffee and toast and jam trade hands in a synchronized and long practiced dance. It is found in a hand at the small of the back, a teasing wink so quick it barely existed, in spending the time between the rolling of the thunder watching how the lightning brightens already blinding blue eyes.

The profundity of love is found in one party taking a position he finds ill-fitting, but doing so anyway because they both know he is the only one she trusts, and he cannot deny her, even if he tried. It lives and breathes in hearts, bodies, sheets and minds tangled together, and knowing that even if the respite is brief, its effects will sustain both of them beyond the great divide.

The strength of admiration is found in underlying respect and faith absolute, in knowing it is safe to rant and rave, for judgment shall never come to pass within these four walls as it does outside them. It exists in the simple silence in their respective offices, when he sits on her couch with his paperwork, and she curls up, laying her head in his lap, with hers. It is inherent in how when one of them storms out, they never walk away; they never slam the door to shut the other out. It resides in the safety of the night, when he holds her and they both believe, for the most fleeting of moments, that tomorrow will be a better day.

The definition of a future lies in how easily she removes his tarnish, and how he lets her guide him to the sunlight again. It resides in how relatively easily the wedding band could slide off his hand, and how she'll be there to hold it, even if the ring never leaves his finger.

The inherent heat is not found in searing kisses or stubble rubbed against milky skin. It is located in a last minute kiss to the temple, when he is going one way and she is going another. It dwells in how they take their time when they are together, no matter how frantic the rest of their lives may be; they cannot help but memorize every plane, every scar, every freckle, walking fingers searing tenderness into their memories. It is discovered in a lingering gaze across a dining table, momentarily ignorant of anyone else in the room, whether it be her family or his, and stays in the form of the faintest blush, giving away their secret.

"I love you" is heard in a thousand different variations, in a smile across a room and two hundred stuffy diplomats; in a full, bright laugh or a deep chuckle saved only for the other. It is conveyed in the desperate sobs in the midnight hour. It is gleaned from endless talks about everything and anything, and from saying nothing at all. Sometimes words just have no meaning, and sometimes they just don't have enough.

These moments are seconds split over the length of a lifetime. Blink and you'll miss them.

Don't blink.

FIN


	9. Catch Me If You Can

_Author's Notes: Yeah, so remember how I said Charlie and I were going on vacation after the Really Big Fic of Doom? Well, the hematologist told me I couldn't go, but the muse left anyway. He called, drunk, with this idea, and like a good human, I indulged him and wrote it down. This is by far the fluffiest, most non-plot oriented thing EVER. Seriously. This comes with a "you'd best brush your teeth after reading this" warning. There are no redeeming qualities to this thing whatsoever. Just so you know._

_The characters and situations herein are not mine. This story is meant only for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended._

* * *

The high hedges and the dark green foliage made it seem much darker within the walls of the maze. The sunlight was fighting to get in, just as she was fighting to get out.

She could hear laughter and music from outside the walls, but every time she tried to reach for them, they danced happily away from her, and she was left again in the dwindling light, only herself for company.

Finally, as she came back to what she figured was the center of the maze, with the tree and its wrought iron holdings, she sat down on the ground and hugged her knees to her chest. She kicked off her uncomfortable shoes, dumping out the loose stones from within them.

She was all alone in this place, and she wished her sister had agreed to come with her while she explored. But her sister, as usual, had said no, and not for the first time, she wondered just how they could be related. Her sister was the pretty one, the smart one, the one who always behaved. She, on the other hand, much preferred digging in the dirt and learning how the worms worked. She was the one who hid from their tutors in the gardener's shed and glomped through the house in galoshes and a tutu when she was supposed to be minding herself. She was the one who, at age four, firmly believed the dining room needed a new paint job, and decided to do it herself, her artist's eye knowing exactly what the room needed to make it more inviting—and more entertaining when her parents made her sit through those long, boring dinners. She'd spent hours tending to that mural with the paintbrushes her father had given her, drawing the landscape of the O.Z. in vivid detail.

Her father had smiled when he saw his youngest daughter's work, and let her tell the story of all the people and places she'd drawn. She'd flung paint on herself, chubby hands still holding on to the wet brush, talking animatedly with her hands as she told of the adventures she'd planned for the people in her picture. She'd also firmly and unequivocally stated she would be the O.Z.'s greatest explorer, learning the land like the back of her hand. Her father had kept smiling and kissed his daughter on the crown of her head. "We couldn't fence you in," he'd said. "I doubt we'd even bother trying."

But her mother and sister were most displeased with her plans, both for redecorating the house, and for what she planned to do with her life. There were rules and expectations, they'd said. She, in turn, said that rules were made to be broken.

The clouds played a game of hide-and-seek with the suns, and a dark shadow cast itself over the maze, leaving the girl shivering with the loss of the heat. Why her mother had made her wear a short-sleeved _dress_ was beyond her.

The wind blew a shiver through the maze, rustling her pigtails and the hedges around her. She rubbed at her bare arms, rocking to ward off the chill, feeling gooseflesh start to dot her skin like freckles.

Then, she heard laughter from around the corner, and stopped rocking against the gravel to better hear it.

The first laugh was a light, tinkling sound, like a bell on Christmas morning, ringing merrily; the kind of sound that always brought a smile to even the staunchest face. The following one was much deeper, almost wary at first, but as the bell continued to dance around it, teasing the other laugh like the girl's sister teased her, it lightened and became freer. It chased the bell around the corner and to the little girl in the center of the maze.

She rose from the ground, grabbed her shoes and followed the sound, peeking warily around the thorns of the bushes.

A dark-haired woman was leaning against the edge of the maze. She was dressed in the prettiest blue gown the little girl had ever seen, though the hemline was dusty and green, like she too had found the big willow tree on the other side of the lake and, like the child, couldn't resist climbing it. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and she had a huge grin on her face. It reminded the little girl of when her father had given her that first set of paintbrushes; her face had hurt from smiling so much.

But the woman did not have paintbrushes with her that made her so happy. Instead, she had a tall, blond man standing in front of her, and the little girl thought he had the same look on his face as her mother got when she came in from chasing the pigs in the garden; trying not to laugh and disrupt the necessary stern expression or lecture.

The woman said something the little girl did not hear, and the man finally laughed again, louder this time, and shook his head. The woman merely continued smiling and stepped away from the edge of the wall, sliding very closely along the front of the man, and the little girl covered her eyes. If they were going to be yucky and kiss like her mother and father did, she didn't want any part of that. No, thank you.

Instead, the woman's voice carried to her. "Catch me if you can!"

The little girl peeked through her fingers and saw the woman dash off, picking the edge of her dress up as she ran. The child was surprised to see she wasn't wearing dress shoes like her mother had made her wear; instead, the woman was wearing something that reminded the girl of her beloved gardener's galoshes. They were dark and dirty and must have felt much more comfortable on her feet than stupid old dress shoes.

The dark haired woman turned a corner, and the man watched her go for a minute before walking briskly after her. The little girl followed quietly but quickly, thinking they might know the way out of the maze. She followed the path laid by their laughter, rushing to keep up as they turned corner after corner.

She peeked around another hedge, and saw as the man reached out and grabbed on to the woman's arm. He spun her towards him, and the little girl thought that the woman was going to get a very stern talking to indeed.

"Gotcha," he said quietly, running a hand down her arm.

"Only because I let you catch me."

"It's not safe to run around by yourself," the man said, but he didn't sound as mad as the child's mother did when she ran off.

The woman smiled, stepping even closer to him. "I'm not by myself," she pointed out. "You're with me."

The little girl filed that argument away for a later date.

The man shook his head again, though his smile was back. "You know, there's a party going on. You should probably be there."

"I'd much rather be in here." The woman wrapped her arms around the man's waist, and the little girl's hand immediately flew to cover her eyes. "I'd much rather be with you."

"You're with me all the time," the man pointed out.

"So why would you expect today to be any different?"

"You're impossible."

"So you keep telling me."

The little girl warily spread her fingers, watching the adults through the slats. He was running a hand through the woman's hair and down her cheek, just like the girl's mother did when she tried to rid her of the leaves and dirt from the girl's adventures in the woods. But the woman didn't have anything in her hair or on her face, except that big, blinding smile that the girl thought was brighter than the sunshine.

The little girl couldn't close her eyes quickly enough when the man finally leaned down and kissed the woman and she spread her palms across his back. The girl heard him say something and the woman laughed again, and then all was quiet, except for the gentle breeze flowing through the leaves and the girl's dress.

After a minute or two, the child figured it was probably safe to look again, and she dropped her hand, only to come face to face with the robin's egg blue of the dark haired woman's gown.

She gulped and looked up into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. She wanted that blue in her paint set; it wasn't dark or cold like the ones on her palette. It was vibrant and fun, and she thought of all the wondrous things she could paint with that color.

The blue didn't seem mad at her for spying, either. Instead, the woman's eyes seemed like they thought her presence was funny, like the time the child had made a pirate flag out of her mother's "good" linens and stood on the dining room table defending her ship with a wooden spoon.

The woman knelt down in front of her, and the gravel dirtied her dress and sent a cloud of dust swirling around them like a travel storm. The little girl sneezed, and the woman smiled.

"Bless you," she said.

"Thank you," the girl replied softly.

"Are you lost?"

The girl nodded. "I got turnded around."

"That can happen sometimes." The woman nodded knowingly. "What's your name?"

The girl was quiet for a moment before she scuffed the gravel with her bare toe. "My mommy says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

"That's very true," the woman replied, and then extended her hand. "Hello, I'm DG. Now we're not strangers anymore."

The girl smiled, shaking DG's hand heartily. "I'm Isabella. Everybody calls me Bella."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, everybody calls me Bella." The woman looked up at the man. "That's a very strange name, don't you think, Cain? Quite long for somebody so small."

The girl giggled, covering her mouth. "You're silly."

"That I am," DG confirmed. "Would you like some help getting back to the party, everybody calls me Bella?"

Bella nodded. "Yes, please."

"All right then." DG stood and looked at the girl's feet. "Hm. We seem to be missing some shoes on those toes, everybody calls me Bella."

Bella held up the shoes from behind her back. "They hurt my feet."

DG turned her back toward the girl, and knelt back down on the ground. "Hop on. I'll give you a ride."

The man laughed, and Bella looked up at him. He was watching DG with a look that reminded Bella of the way her mommy looked at her daddy when they danced barefoot in the kitchen when they thought she was in bed.

Bella climbed onto DG's back, and the man helped the dark haired woman to her feet. Bella bounced against DG's back, and she was breathless from laughing as they trudged their way back through the maze.

The sounds of the party became louder the more they walked, and soon, the sunlight broke through the maze fully as they faced the entrance. She put a hand up to her eyes to shield herself from the brightness of the light, and squealed as DG turned in a huge, fast circle.

DG knelt back onto the grass, and the little girl climbed off, wiping her face of the loose hair that had escaped her pigtails. "Thank you!"

DG smiled, first at the little girl, and then at the man as he helped her to her feet again. Bella looked up at them, the sunlight melding their two shadows into one, and she couldn't tell where one began and the other ended. She watched intently as DG wrapped an arm around the man's waist, leaning her head against his shoulder, and he kissed the top of her head. Bella started to ask how long they had been married when she heard her mother's voice.

"Isabella Grace Warren, where in Ozma's name have you _been_? We've been worried _sick_!"

Bella turned, looking down. Her mother had said her full name. This did not bode well.

She stared at the ground until she saw her mother's shadow and the toes of her shoes come into sight. She heard her mother start to yell at her again, and then looked up in surprise when her mother stopped and lowered her voice.

"Your Highness! Forgive me! I hope Isabella hasn't been bothering you."

Bella looked up at her mother curiously. "Mommy, her name is DG, not Your Highness."

DG and the blond man couldn't hold in their laughter. Finally, the dark haired woman replied, "Not at all, Lady Warren. Bella and I just went exploring together." Bella felt DG's hand on the top of her head. "I'm sorry I kept her from you."

"It's…quite all right, Your Highness. She does have an adventurous spirit that's hard to rein in sometimes. "

The blond man snorted. "Sound like anyone you know, princess?"

Bella giggled when DG rolled her eyes at him.

"Thank you for keeping an eye on her, Your Highness, though I'm sorry she took you from the party."

"Honestly, Lady Warren, the pleasure was all mine."

"We should probably be going. Quite a long ride home." Bella's mother extended her hand. "Come along, Isabella. You and I need to have a talk."

Bella's face fell. "But I want to stay!" There was a gazebo swing that she thought just might let her fly among the stars if she got high enough.

DG knelt down behind her, and the little girl turned to face the pretty blue eyes again. "I'll tell you what," DG said softly, "how about you come and visit me another time, and we'll explore all you like then. How does that sound?"

Bella smiled and nodded, holding out her hand. "It's a deal."

DG nodded emphatically and shook her hand. "I have a great tree to show you, everybody calls me Bella. We can climb it together."

"Thank you again, Your Highness," Bella's mother said, curtsying. She took her youngest daughter's hand and led her to their coach. Bella turned around and waved at DG and the blond man. Both waved back, and Bella noticed their hands laced together, rubbing against the beautiful blue of DG's dress.

She got her paints back after a week of punishment.

The first thing she did was add a pretty blue eyed, dark haired woman and a tall blond man to her map of the O.Z. in the dining room.

When her father asked her who the new additions were, Bella told him the truth.

"The princess and the tin man. They lived happily ever after."

* * *

_And thus ends the randomest, fluffiest thing in the history of the world. Hopefully it brought a smile to your face._


	10. Directionality

_Author's Notes: The characters and situations herein are not mine. This story is meant solely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended._

_Ooh, look, DG/Cain flangsty introspection. I know you're all shocked at how much of a departure this is for me. :)_

_The inspiration for this piece comes from my new obsession, the alt-country group Lady Antebellum. They have some seriously kick ass CDG-ish songs on their debut album. This isn't a song fic, per se, but the lyrics of two songs ("Slow Down Sister" and "I Run To You") did help inspire and shape this little ditty. At least, I listened to the CD for the seven hundred millionth time while I was writing. I won't put them here, but email me if you want the lyrics. Or just buy the CD. It rocks._

_This piece is unbetaed, so any mistakes/glaring characterization errors are solely the muse's. Blame him. :)_

_Feedback is better than the Sox sweeping our arch rivals (??), the Brewers. _

* * *

One of the first things he told her to do was to stay behind him.

He learned quickly that she had a talent for ignoring him. In the end, it was all he could do to catch up with her.

He'd never realized before that it was _she_ who led _him_ down the path unknown, that he'd followed her blindly and faithfully. She forged ahead, cutting through the thick barriers around them like a warm knife on butter. She was always two steps ahead of him, running blindly into the darkest part of their world, not realizing—or possibly not caring—just how the blackness would taint the lightness of both her eyes and her soul. She couldn't fathom that the most benign objects tended to pose the greatest danger; things were not always as they seemed.

She trusted far too easily, giving everyone the benefit of the doubt, whether they deserved it or not. She never wavered in her belief that everyone had a heart _somewhere_, and though the subject of her emotional intervention might fight her on the point, they deserved to feel freedom. They should be given a second chance, a future, no matter the ghosts and demons of their past.

She was the combination of a saint and an angel to most people, someone who had returned in the darkest of times to relight their blackened lives, to rescue them from the cold clutches of evil.

He was not one of those people.

In fact, most of the time, she scared the shit out of him.

He _wanted_ to believe in salvation and redemption. He_ wanted_ to believe in the possibility of a future, of a second chance—with his son, perhaps, if the younger man would have him; with his son's blonde medic wife and maybe a grandchild or two. He wanted to believe that after the storm, there truly was a new day dawning. He wanted to trust again, laugh again, love again. But he only hoped for those things in the solitude of night, his chambers and a good bottle of whiskey.

He was fine with keeping his wishes close to the vest until he realized the deliverance he desired was quite literally at hand, embodied—and two doors down—in the youngest princess.

He'd always been the man with a plan. It rocked him to the core to realize that he had no idea where to go from here. He had no idea whether he _wanted_ to, or _should_ go forward; would it be an insult to his family's memory if he did? Would it be dismissive of all the hardships they'd endured to box and disregard them as he himself had been trapped before? Would it be acceptable to let everything that had happened fall into the landscape of his past, overgrown and ignored like the Iron Maidens at both his family's cabins were?

She wasn't making things easier on him. In fairness, she _thought _she was. She tried to keep a respectful distance from him, believing he needed time to grieve the loss of his beloved wife and regain his footing. He knew she understood the uneasiness he felt after the Eclipse, because she was feeling the same way. But every time she looked at him, he saw the same light behind her eyes that he'd seen in Adora's when they were first married. He was their protector, the unflappable Tin Man who could do no wrong, and they loved him endlessly for it.

He'd apparently misled Adora on that front, and she'd paid the ultimate price. He didn't think he could let DG down, too, especially when it could cost her her life.

Especially when losing her could cost him his heart and his sanity.

For a time after the Eclipse, blue eyes morphed into brown, and dark locks highlighted in the summer sun as one companion faded into another. But soon he realized he was seeing not the specter of his wife, of days gone by, or of his failures. Instead, he finally started to see the hope and recovery the other citizens of the O.Z. had seen since the princess's heralded return.

He also acknowledged there was something different when she looked at him and only him. Her smile was blinding, brighter than anything he'd ever heard described before; her touch both comforting and addicting. Her voice calmed and centered him. He found, after a time, that he craved her like the Mystic Man had craved the Sorceress's vapors. She was a necessity just as much as oxygen was. He _needed_ her to survive, to function.

He wanted to run; he should saddle up and disappear into the realm and be his own man again. She only knew a handful of places in the O.Z., and she'd never be able to find him, even as stubborn as she was. He was too good at hiding, an expert at retreating and becoming one with the shadows, long feeling that he belonged among the darkness.

But he found he _couldn't_ run. He felt an unavoidable tether to her side, and that protecting and caring for her were the only things that mattered. In truth, that was what scared him most; he'd always been able to leave Adora and Jeb when he went to Central City, or away with the Mystic Man. It had hurt, of course, but he'd known then that the sacrifices were for the greater good, and that made it easier to sleep at night.

Now he found he wasn't as concerned with the greater good. He was concerned about her and her alone. He'd do his damndest to keep her safe, to keep her away from anything that could hurt her.

For as openly emotive as she was, he could never quite tell whether she understood why he decided to stay, that it wasn't out of a sense of duty to honor his promise to the Mystic Man; it was out of a sense of duty to _her_. He didn't have the words to describe the complex emotions he felt about and for her, let alone the ability to verbalize them to her.

He tried to show her as best he could, returning her incessant hugs as tightly as he dared, and letting his fingers brush against hers as they walked side by side. He kissed her forehead, and she kissed his cheek in greeting and departure, both gestures lingering as the days faded into weeks and months. He lent her his beloved fedora when she escaped to the gazebo at Finaqua to sketch, knowing her freckles would stand out against her fair skin if she were too exposed beneath the afternoon suns; eventually, she just started keeping it in her own room until he got her one for her birthday so he could have his back. He always made a second cup of coffee at breakfast, knowing she'd drain his in two gulps if left to her own devices. He went to her when the inevitable nightmares came—it didn't matter if they were hers or his, and rarely did they speak about the monsters lurking beneath the beds. Instead, they spent the deathly quiet midnight hours playing poker or chess, waiting with bated breath for the suns to rise. When they did, the sunlight rivaled their thankful smiles to each other, and they lifted the smothering weights from their chests, discarding them and relieving the burden, even if it was only for the day.

It scared him how intertwined their lives had become; he wondered sometimes what would happen if he tried to pull himself from her, whether or not they'd fray and disintegrate if separated. He wondered if he'd ever be able to break the stalemate, break through his own barriers and actually be _free_ for the first time.

In the end, she ignored him—again—and decided to easily reroute them around his self-imposed impasse. When she finally kissed him, fully and properly, upon his return from the birth of his granddaughter—the gesture not hidden behind the walls of propriety their previous embraces had been, and openly telling of her love for him—he was left to catch up to her again, more disoriented than ever. But he was surprised to find himself more invigorated than ever, more willing than ever, to finally give in and step out of the tin box that had held him hostage for so long.

He finally stepped out of the shadows and into the sunlight.

When he rested his forehead against hers, he tried to tell her that once again, he was lost, and unsure of how to take the next step. He'd fought for the words as hard as he'd ever fought for her, and she'd just pressed a finger to his lips before covering it with her mouth again. She whispered that she understood, and that she'd not been running _from _him, but had merely been leading him to this place.

She whispered that they would find the way together, and that they could both stop running. If they got lost along the way, it was fine, because they'd already found each other.

FIN

* * *

_A/N, Take Two: Yes, that was a wink-wink, nudge-nudge shoutout to Doc from the RBFOD/Scrutiny. Again. Because I am nothing if not a broken record (ask Alamo Girl). I think it's going to be like "Where's Waldo" in my stories now; whoever finds the mention of the medic first gets a cookie. But I've been amusing myself and the muse by writing missing moments (set pre-RBFOD, obviously) for her and Jeb that will probably never see the light of day, so we had to chuck her in a piece I'd actually post. :) _

_Thanks for reading!_


	11. Family

_Author's Notes: Save for characters you don't recognize, the characters and situations herein are not mine. This story is meant solely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended._

_Thank you to Alamo Girl and SpikesSweetie for their love, support and a few smacks upside the head. (But I LIKE using the same descriptors over and over, Mel! Hee.) My RAWesome Statler, you are my hero and I wubs ya **THIS** much. Beebo—if you're reading this, I'm shocked. And you will be very confused. But I love you anyway._

_I'm applying some liberal generalizations regarding schooling in the O.Z. Just go with it. As Angela Montenegro said on "Bones", "It's best to just ride it out, like an earthquake." Hee._

_This piece takes place in the RBFOD 'verse, but it's not necessary to read "Scrutiny" or "Antietam" to understand this puppy._

_This one's for Lattelady. It didn't come out the way I intended, but then again, does **anything** I__ do make sense?_

* * *

The spring breeze flowed warmly through the outside amphitheater, sending bright green leaves and soft pink petals into a circular dance around both blades of grass and honored guests. The first sun had reached its peak in the sky, and the second was ascending in a bright arc behind its brother, leaving varying and soothing shades of yellow in its wake.

The rustling of the leaves and the wind were drowned out by the excited chatter of friends and family gathered outside the gates of Central City. Many in attendance remembered when there was nothing to celebrate; no graduations, few weddings. For many annuals, only funerals or battle scenes seemed to bring the citizens together.

Many believed it was a miracle sent by the gods that in the twenty annuals since the downfall of the Witch and the reclamation of the O.Z., that the landscape—both political and physical—had only been dotted by minor skirmishes from a small group of resistors. It had to be divine intervention that Central City College was graduating its largest class to date, for many of the graduates hadn't even been born when the events of the double eclipse occurred. Their parents, somehow, some way, found the strength to move on and provide their children with lives they had never known—ones free from tyranny, one where tears turned into smiles, where hope and faith were as readily available as guns and munitions had once been.

One graduate stood to the side and watched the lines of friends and family walk toward the chairs set up for the ceremony. Her blonde hair whipped in the warm wind, and she couldn't help but smile and hear her mother's voice in her head. _Anytime the wind blows, that's your father telling us he loves us. _It was a story the graduate had known by heart since she was five annuals old. Her parents met during the Witch's reign, fought both the regime and each other—the girl knew how stubborn her mother was, and from the stories she'd heard about her father being equally bullheaded, those fights must have been knockdown, drag-out affairs that should have had a referee in the Realm of the Unwanted—fallen in love, quietly gotten married, and gotten pregnant.

Her father never knew her mother was expecting; not in life, anyway. But the graduate and her mother both knew he was looking down at them from the heavens, proud and smiling, teasing his girls with dancing fireflies, fluttering butterflies and the blowing of the wind.

People had often asked her if she missed having a father. She always found it to be an odd question, for she'd only known a mother's love, and had no idea what, if anything, it was lacking. She was probably seven or eight annuals when she'd posed the philosophical question to her mother—_are we a real family?_

Her mother had said that the definition of family was fluid; there was no right or wrong answer. _Family is nothing more than a state of mind, _she'd said. _The only thing that defines family is love, little one. And you have more of that than anyone else in the Realm._

Looking out over the crowd, she spotted her family, as eccentric as a group of people could ever be. Her mother was talking animatedly with one of her aunts, and her uncle was chiming in, his hands swinging so fast and freely that her grandfather—oh, how he _hated_ that word—had to duck several times in an effort to avoid being hit.

She couldn't help but giggle at her godmother, who was sitting next to her grandfather, and no doubt complaining about her state of dress. She imagined the words coming out of the older woman's mouth: _This is ridiculous. I look like an overdressed monkey. I wore flip flops to my graduation, for heaven's sake. And whose idea was it to have the Queen hand out the diplomas? It'll take forever._

The blonde saw her mother turn suddenly toward her, as though she'd felt her daughter's gaze when it landed in her direction, and the younger woman briefly waved hello. She and her mother had long ago perfected the art of silent conversation—a necessity living in the castle with so many verbose personalities fighting for dominance—sometimes in the same body. With a cock of her head, her mother asked if she wanted company, and the graduate shook her head slightly. Her mother nodded once and returned to the conversations around her, but the graduate noticed the older woman looking over at her periodically, just to double check her daughter's comfort and safety. She may have been nineteen annuals old, but her mother had said, firmly and on more than one occasion, that she'd always be the little girl who, when she was four, fell asleep under the Queen's desk, causing the entirety of the Royal Guard to fan out and search the lands and woods at Finaqua for hours on end. She could be dangerous when left to her own devices.

She'd scared the mobat shit out of the maid who came in to clean the Queen's office, popping up from her nap just as the woman was dusting the front of the desk. Her grandfather said she gave the Queen herself a run for her money in the _getting into trouble_ department. She'd never told him the Queen had been the one to suggest hiding there when playing hide-and-go-seek with her cousins.

Explaining her connection to the Royal Family was headache inducing, and had been from day one. She'd known from a very early age that her home situation was vastly different from those of her classmates, no matter her mother's efforts to make it more "normal". Her uncle had pointed out that, just like the definition of family, normal was subjective. Of course, he'd proceeded to map out examples on his chalkboard for the next three hours, but she had to love the man. She never would have passed chemistry if it wasn't for him.

She couldn't help but grin at the motley crew gathered front and center for her graduation from the school of medicine. Two Queens, two Consorts, a Princess Royal, the Royal Advisor, the Royal Viewer, the Royal Heirs—though, at present, they were distinctly absent—and her mother, the Royal Medic.

They had been there for her first steps, her first words, her first _everything._ Hell, who else could say that the Queen of the O.Z. was not only her godmother, but had been the second person to hold her after she was born?

The graduate smiled and leaned against the wrought iron gates, her curly blonde hair still whipping in her face. She laughed aloud and looked to the sky, watching as a white cloud all but winked at her as it floated by. _Don't worry, I see you too, Daddy,_ she thought, _and I love you just as much._

"Hey there, Miss Valedictorian."

The graduate turned and grinned. "Hey there, Princess."

The dark-haired, light-eyed young woman made a face. "None of that, thank you very much. I'm trying to be incognito."

"Oh, yeah, because the Royal Seal on your cloak isn't a dead giveaway at _all_, Em."

"I swear to Ozma, I'm ready to burn this thing. The only reason I'm wearing it is because Grandmother insisted."

The blonde laughed. "And your mother _still_ can't say no to her."

Emily threw her hands up, and the graduate had to blink to clearly see the princess and not a mirror image of the girl's mother. "The woman has run the damn realm for twenty years," she said disbelievingly, slipping into her mother's Other Side speak in her frustration. "She stood up to the darkest power we've ever known, jumped off cliffs, was thrown of balconies, survived almost twenty years of marriage to my father—_the_ most frustrating man on _any_ side—and yet the woman can't stand up and say, 'Hey, Ma, these ermine cloak things? Really not our thing.' There. See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

The graduate felt the vibration of someone running their fingers against the iron gate behind her, and turned, seeing the other princess coming around to stand with her sister, an amused look on her face. "Em, I really don't think Ashby is in the mood to hear you bitch right now. I tell you what; I'll step on the edge of your cloak, we'll rip it and turn it into a rug, okay?"

Emily motioned to her sister. "And the voice of reason arrives in the nick of time, to once again save me from myself. Thank you, my dear Julia."

"Anytime, little sister," the older princess replied, leaning against the gate next to the blonde, who had returned her gaze to the sky. "You look rather pensive, Miss Graduate. Care to share with the rest of the class?"

The blonde smiled, ducking her head slightly and toeing at the grass beneath her feet. If she'd known him, she'd have realized that her father did the exact same thing when he was uncomfortable or embarrassed. "Just thinking about my dad, that's all."

Emily stepped to her and took the blonde's hands in her own. "He would be _so_ proud of you, Ash. I think we'd be forced to place money on who'd embarrass you more; him or our father."

"I don't know, I think Uncle Ambrose may be a dark horse in that race," Julia interjected. "Remember how excited he was when she got accepted in the program? He didn't stop talking about it for _weeks._ And he definitely wasn't glitching."

Ashby caught sight of her mother motioning to the stage, and she looked down at her watch. "Showtime, girls," she said, giving them each a quick hug.

Julia held on a second longer than her sister, and whispered teasingly, "Don't trip, Ash. That would be bad."

Ashby rolled her eyes, but grinned nonetheless. "Thanks for the advice."

Julia pulled away, smiling broadly, the spitting image of her father. "Anytime, dear one. Anytime."

The blonde stepped toward the staging area for the graduates, her borrowed flip flops smacking between the grass and her heels as she walked. She caught her godmother turning red from trying not to laugh, finally losing the battle when the Queen caught sight of Ainsley noticing her daughter's footwear for the first time.

_We'll make it an Ozian tradition_, DG had said before slipping Ashby the shoes the previous night. _Each Cain girl must wear the flip flops on the day of her commencement. Or maybe at her wedding. That'd work, too._

Ashby saw her mother turn to DG, who bit her lip in a valiant, but ultimately futile, effort to keep her laughter inside. She leaned over to the medic and whispered something Ashby could not decipher from her present distance from her family, but it must have been trademark DG, for the blonde physician—now the first of two in her family—could not hold in her snort of laughter, and tried to hide her giggles behind her hand.

The sunlight glinted off her mother's ring, and Ashby smiled again, wishing the wind would wrap itself around her one more time, as though her father were there, reminiscing with her. She'd always wanted to try the band on, but her mother would never remove it from her left hand. Her father had given it to her mother almost a full annual before they actually married, at the behest of her paternal grandmother, as a promise that if they were to see a future, they'd do it together. Her mother always had a faraway look when she talked about the ring—Adora's ring—and twirled it around her finger when she spoke of the windy Thursday morning when she and Jeb had stolen away to Central City and stood in front of the judge, declaring their intentions.

They hadn't told anyone what they'd done. They never divulged that it had been Adora's dying wish that Ainsley truly become part of the family. They never told a soul that their anniversary was Adora's birthday.

Her father had died six months later. Her mother was barely a month pregnant, and had no idea of her condition.

Ashby was born in mid-August, and in the most ironic twist, on Princess Azkadellia's birthday. She shared a birthday with the woman who had killed her maternal grandfather.

Ainsley's strong alto voice always quieted when she spoke of the day her daughter was born. _It was a rebirth for all of us in so many ways, _she used to say. _Queen Lavender always said your name should be Hope, because you were the first tangible proof we had that we _could_—and _should—_move on._

Instead of heeding the former Queen's suggestion, her mother had quietly asked Wyatt Cain if she could use Adora's maiden name for her new little girl. The Tin Man had agreed, and she was christened Ashby Danielle Cain, after her grandparents.

A huge gust of wind blew through the crowd, sending dresses and programs flapping uncontrollably like wings in a tempest, and causing much of the congregation to hurriedly right themselves. Ashby caught sight of her mother and grinned as the activity around them reached a frenzied peak. As it always did, it took Ainsley a moment to respond, for when her daughter smiled, she looked exactly like Jeb. But her smile became just as big and knowing as her daughter's. Jeb was here, and making his presence and pride known.

After the dean of the school finished his remarks, DG—_the Queen, _Ashby reminded herself, _here, she's the Queen, _not _the woman who's been known to throw you in the lake when your mother wasn't looking—_strode to the stage on the arm of her husband. He leaned over and whispered something to the brunette, causing the Queen to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She tried to glare before she started her welcome, but the former Tin Man merely winked and returned to his seat, next to his two girls.

Ashby nearly jumped out of her seat when she felt a hand on the back of her neck. She turned to look discretely behind her, but saw no one. She still felt the pressure, though, a gentle brush of what felt like a thumb against her shoulder. She heard the whisper of the wind again; only this time, it was cold and nothing around her moved. The breeze was little more than a sigh, but she distinctly heard words as the draft gently brushed her curls back from her face.

_I'm so very proud of you, my baby girl. I love you._

The gust floated in front of her, tickling her nose as it passed, and disappeared into the crowd.

She immediately sought out her mother, and noticed the older woman go rigid when her own curls blew away from her face. Ainsley's eyes widened and she covered her mouth with a shaking hand, her free fist grasping for the sheath of air as though she could capture it. Ashby saw her mother nod ever so subtly, and as her mother's eyes slid shut, tears sprung to the back of the younger blonde's eyes, wondering what her father was whispering to her mother.

She was caught somewhat off-guard when she heard her name being called. She stood on shaky legs, and took a moment to center herself before walking to where the Queen was standing, holding her diploma. DG was smiling widely, the pride obvious on her face. She enveloped her goddaughter in a huge hug, pressing a kiss to Ashby's porcelain skin.

"He was here, wasn't he?" DG whispered, and Ashby nodded against her shoulder. "I thought so," the Queen continued. "He wouldn't have missed it for the world."

When they separated, DG cupped Ashby's chin. "We are so proud of you, little one. You're carrying the traditions of both your families beautifully. I couldn't entrust them to anyone more worthy."

As Ashby looked down at the parties who were standing, applauding and whistling like there was no tomorrow—perhaps so boisterous because they _knew_ what it was like to face the possibility of no future and they were determined not to let anything slip past again—she had to swallow around the flood of emotion that threatened to capsize her.

As she moved her tassel from one side to the other to identify herself as a graduate, she caught sight of a blond-haired, hazel-eyed Resistance fighter standing behind her family, his ghosting hand resting on her mother's shoulder. He winked and waved slightly before disappearing like vapor into the ether.

The ten most famous people in the O.Z. cheered as she was proclaimed Doctor Ashby Cain.

But they were not famous to her. They were simply family.

FIN

* * *

_A/N, Take Two: So, yeah. I did the unthinkable squared. I wrote a next-gen fic, which I've never done before, and I broke my self-imposed cardinal rule of not having a pregnant mommy when a daddy dies. But the muse and I have been amusing ourselves writing missing moments for our beloved Resistance fighters, and this is the culmination of that, from Ashby's perspective rather than Doc's._

_If people are interested in seeing the other missing moments, let me know and I'll post 'em over on Live Journal. That link's in the profile._

_Thank you for putting up with our nutty selves. Charlie and I appreciate it._


	12. Complex Simplicity

_Author's Notes: The characters and situations here in are not mine. This story is meant solely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended._

_This is for Meredith Paris, who, instead of asking for Jeb/Az because she knew Ainsley would have a serious problem with that (hee!), provided the following prompts: "on a cold day, there was nothing better than keeping themselves under the blankets", a Cain/DG pairing and post-Eclipse fun. It's a little different (read: angstier) than I intended it to be, but I hope you like it anyway, darling. I wubs my Statler **THIS** much._

_Credit to Alamo Girl and SpikesSweetie for their thoughts on the Cain-vs-Wyatt debate. And cookies to whoever can find the inference you so know is in here somewhere (though this does NOT take place in the RBFOD 'verse.) :)_

* * *

For six months, she did not sleep in her room.

For six months, she did not sleep through the night.

She caught naps on the couch in her office, or shared a room with her sister. Nobody noticed the change in her routine, for life post-Eclipse was anything_ but_ routine, and there were more important things to worry about than the princess's sleeping habits.

Had they asked, she would have been able to come up with a litany of excuses and explanations as to why she chose anywhere but her chambers to search for respite. _People are dying,_ she'd say, _and I have to figure out a way to stop that from continuing. Sleep isn't a priority right now._

She'd never tell them the truth. She'd never tell them that it hurt too much to be in her room, because it hurt too much to be alone. She'd never tell them that every time she passed by the bedroom, she expected to see a fedora and duster tossed haphazardly across the window seat, and him waiting for her with rolled-up shirt sleeves, sitting on the edge of the bed. She'd never admit that the blankets still smelled like him, and that if she succumbed and cocooned herself in their confines, she'd never get up again, choosing to hold steadfastly to the fleeting safety when it was impossible to hold on to him.

It was a ridiculously obvious statement, but everything had changed for her after the Eclipse. Strangers had slowly become family. A foreign land had slowly become home. A friend had slowly become more.

She'd been surprised when he elected to stay with her after the regime's fall. She'd expected him to bid her goodbye, wish her luck, and head back east with his son and daughter-in-law. He'd not offered much explanation, merely saying he knew where he could be of most use, and he'd stay as long as she needed him.

She'd realized a few months in that she'd need him forever.

It was ironic that _this_ realization--not being dropped in a strange land, finding out she had been murdered by her sister, or learning she had more in common with Harry Potter than she'd ever thought possible--was the one that brought her to her knees. It was as though a switch had been flicked somewhere, and suddenly, he was no longer just Cain, friend and self-appointed princess protector. She started to see elements of Wyatt seep through; he was the man who enjoyed a good laugh and a glass of whiskey at the end of the day. He was the man who was raised as the son of a farmer and a schoolteacher. He was the man who'd been suspended from his graduation ceremony after a senior prank went slightly haywire. He was the man who started to drop his guard around her, who trusted her enough to let her in. Cain always kept his emotions close to the vest, but Wyatt let his eyes do more of the talking, never wavering beneath her increased scrutiny.

He was the man who walked her to her room each night, always taking the lead, always guarding and guiding her. He was the man whose opinion she sought out most actively, whom she trusted above all others. He was the man she thought of first in the morning. He was the man who always gave her a half-smile and a _'til tomorrow, Princess_, after she said _goodnight, my friend,_ and before she shut her door. He was the man who refused to walk away until he heard the turning of her lock and convinced himself of her safety.

He was the man who refused to walk away, period. He was the man who had unwavering faith, who refused to be beaten into submission, regardless of everything he'd been through. He believed in her when she gave him no reason to, when she didn't believe in herself. He'd never lost focus, and was silently strong, especially in her darkest hours when she needed him most.

He was the man whose hand at the small of her back, whose smile, whose embraces, somehow made the world make sense, even in the most confusing and trying of times. He was the man who made all the clichés ring true. He was the man she never knew she'd always wanted.

Over time, it had become tradition that they'd regroup at the end of the day in the palace kitchen, and she'd make the OZ versions of club sandwiches or macaroni and cheese. At first, her sister and friends had joined them, but when the conversations became marathon sessions extending into the wee hours of the morning, one by one, the rest of the group eventually left them alone. After a few weeks, no one else even bothered to show up at the unspoken but designated hour, knowing the princess and the tin man were happy in their shared solitude.

She'd noticed one night that he couldn't quite look her in the eye, and her heart had dropped to her stomach, shattering into a thousand pieces and skittering across the kitchen floor as she believed him finally ready to leave her. She'd swallowed around her fear, put her hand on his and told him she understood, thanking him for staying as long as he had.

His head shot up at her words, and he stared at her, eyes and mouth agape, as if she had sprouted a third head. He was outwardly amused when he demanded to know just what the hell she was rattling on about, but she'd seen the darker tint to his eyes, betraying that his outward relaxation carefully hid something much deeper.

She'd felt the blush threaten, and tried to pull away in embarrassment. But he'd held steadfast--as he always had--and laced his fingers with hers as he haltingly tried to find the words to explain. He'd finally slid off his stool, and tugged lightly on her hand, pulling her up. She'd stood in front of him, open and willing, and he'd understood her silent acquiescence as encouragement--as he always had.

Their first kiss was at half past midnight on a Tuesday, with only the humming of the refrigerator as company.

They started meeting in her room each night after that, not for any salacious reasons, but because the O.Z. was descending into an exhausting and unending state of flux. Their days were much busier as the weeks turned to months and fall colors drained into winter white. He insisted she at least try to get some sleep, and she in turn insisted he stay.

She'd always felt a special kind of warm safety with him, and when he finally gave in to her--as he always had--and stayed the night, the increased heat soaked into the blankets, and she wrapped herself tightly within the wool and his woodsy, protective scent.

She'd never been an early riser, but found herself waking before the suns to just watch him sleep. He kept one hand on her waist at all times, as if he could only rest when he knew she was next to him, not gallivanting to Ozma only knew where. She rested her head on his chest or shoulder, watching his eyelids flutter as he dreamed, his face and soul no longer belying the horrors he'd endured.

She still said _goodnight, my friend_, and he still answered with _'til tomorrow, Princess. _So much had changed, and yet, not much had.

She learned to love the safety of the silence, the stillness in which they could both just _be_. It was during those times that she was not a princess and he was not a member of the Royal Guard. It was during those times that she was not an Other Sider with a penchant for chaos, and he was not an Ozian who worshipped order almost as much as he adored her. It was during those times that she felt like she could finally breathe; when he whispered into her hair or ran his fingers beneath the fabric of the shirt she'd stolen from him, rubbing the small of her back, the rest of the world just faded into the background, absorbed by the rippling of the lake onto the pebbly shore and the symphony of the crickets' midnight songs.

She realized later that she'd always lived her life with one foot out the door, ready to cut and run whenever and wherever the wind beckoned her. Now, the complex simplicity of falling in love with Wyatt Cain, with wearing his shirt to bed, with huddling beneath the blankets with him as the snowflakes danced around outside her window, made her realize just how much she wanted to embrace the idea of finding her place, of finding _home_.

It had all started to come undone when the ever increasing rebel faction had declared war on the crown. She'd woken to a thunderstorm and had instinctively curled toward his side of the bed, panicking when she did not feel him next to her. She'd run her hand over the sheet, further concerned when their coolness indicated he'd been long gone. She'd thrown on her jeans beneath his shirt and let her feet lead her to her mother's office, never concerned with just how she knew where he was. He'd been there with Glitch and Jeb, hunkered over a map and piles of correspondence.

Her mother had asked him to take a company of men and help fortify their defenses in the east. He'd silently asked his princess's permission, and left the next day. Their tears had mixed together as they said their goodbyes, and she'd had to turn away as he mounted his horse, for she knew her heart could not take watching him leave. She'd shut the bedroom door--once hers and now _theirs_--and moved in with her sister that night.

The tranquility of the night became too much to bear after he left. She wished for any noise--the humming of a fan, the running of water, even the click of a guard's boots as he patrolled the corridors. The silence became deafening when he was not there to help her break it. She felt smothered in his absence, unable to breathe until she could exhale a sigh of relief.

Communication had been sparse, given both the likelihood of interception and his distance from the castle. But he'd sent a few short notes, assuring her he was safe, and ordering her to watch her back, for things were going to get a lot worse before they'd get better. She couldn't decide if it was easier or harder to hear from him--hope always came with the post, and when no letters came for weeks at a time, faith showed its fleeting and fickle side, breaking her again just as she'd finished rebuilding.

Spring had eventually yielded to summer, and when he finally came back to her, she could not tell it was him walking through the late July haze. She was sitting on the swing in the gazebo when he'd returned, and she'd blinked away both the sunlight and her tears when she saw the telltale fedora--more worn and worse for wear, but beautifully still atop a gloriously alive Wyatt Cain.

She'd discarded her scouting reports, letting the wind scatter the pages to the water's edge and not caring as the ink bled from the parchment, rendering them as useless as she'd felt during his absence. She'd sprinted through the tall grasses toward him, her feet sprouting wings as she flew to him. He'd had enough time to drop his pack and open his arms before she leapt into him, her thankful tears staining the leather of his vest.

That night, they brought the blankets from her room, now slightly musty and definitely underused, and hid themselves from the world in the gazebo. She closed her eyes and breathed in her surroundings, memorizing the feel of him beneath her fingers. Finaqua welcomed him home as well, the lapping of the waves on the shore a low fanfare harmonizing with the wind, the crickets and her grateful, loving words.

She didn't feel the chill of the next morning, for even though she'd shunned them, the blankets had not forgotten her--had not forgotten _them_--and warmed her with a heat comparable to those of the twin suns.

It was the first of many mornings shared beneath those blankets. The complex simplicity of their relationship faded into the lightening sky of dawn, leaving only him, only her, only them in love.

On a cold day, there was nothing better than keeping themselves under the blanket.

On a warm day, there was nothing better than keeping themselves under the blanket.

On any day, at any given moment, there was nothing better than being together.

FIN


	13. Failsafe

_Author's Notes: The characters herein are not mine. This story is meant solely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended._

_Thanks and glory be to Alamo Girl, who taught me all about horses and why Ahamo isn't a prince consort. Oh, she also beta'd this piece and rescued me from writer's block hell with her awesome rants, conversation and plot prompts, all of which led to this, the third longest oneshot in history (after her "Undermine" and "The Great Divide"--hee!). You rock, girlie. Thank you for everything._

_There is some physical character injury in this chapter. There is also, of course, a little wink-wink, nudge-nudge familiar face here, because I am as subtle as a two-by-four to the head. This is NOT part of the RBFOD 'verse, but there's still plenty of flangst ahead, mateys! Ahoy!_

_This is for Bee, because she needs new fic. I hope this helps the dry spell, dear._

_This is also for Beebo, who will never read this--mostly because there's an SVU marathon going on right now--but whof's been there to hold my hand more times than I care to count._

* * *

It seemed as though the whole of the O.Z. had stopped to watch the suns emerge from behind the moon. They'd all tilted their heads up in harmony, bathing themselves in the light that had been so ordinary and unnoticed just a short time ago, but that now purified their long-darkened souls.

It _seemed _as though the whole of the O.Z. had stopped to watch the suns emerge, but not everyone had.

In the basement of the Sorceress's tower, a lone apprentice hid in the shadows behind the smoking, scorched machinery, watching as a thick, viscous, black liquid soaked through the cracks in the concrete ceiling and the resulting drops splattered loudly onto the pipes just above his head.

He'd remained in the subbasement, per the orders of his superiors, after the tower had rocked from the Resistance's explosions and all available personnel had moved to fortify the outer walls. They'd pledged to do anything, give their lives if necessary, to ensure the Sorceress's plans would succeed.

His heart beat in time with the hum of the anti-sun seeder as he felt around the back of the main power gauge for the hidden, spring loaded panel. His hand rung with vibration as the cover dropped quickly down, and he stared at the small red button in the center of the opening.

Such a small, seemingly innocuous object; one that could be easily overlooked just like the sunlight, passed over and ignored, even in the most thorough of inspections.

The Sorceress hadn't been stupid; she'd known that the Resistance had spies everywhere, especially watching the land between the tower and Central City. She'd known that word of the machine and her plan would reach the rebel faction, and they'd do everything in their power to stop her.

So she'd instituted a failsafe. Destroy the tower, destroy all records of her other inventions and supporters. Even if she didn't survive the last stand, there were faithful followers who would carry on. If no evidence existed, the justice system sure to be set up after the fall of the regime would have no proof of who was involved, or how deeply their alliances ran.

The apprentice let his hand hover over the button before depressing it. There was no satisfying clatter, no whirling gears, no machinery exhaling as it powered up. Instead, he saw an indicator light flash from red to green, and felt a static charge fill the air.

He left the basement after a satisfied nod, renewed vigor in his step, one thought in his head.

_Long live the Sorceress._

* * *

DG's inhale of the cool evening air expanded her lungs and puckered her skin into goosebumps, and she saw her breath form a broken cloud in front of her as she sighed deeply. She rubbed her arms, finally shoving her hands into her coat pockets as she warded off the post-adrenaline chill working through her body.

She catalogued the different hues of red, pink and orange as they spread across the landscape of the O.Z., the sunlight glinting off once tarnished landmarks. Somehow, the green of the surrounding forest seemed deeper; the shining silver-blue tint to the Central City skyline more vivid. Her fingers physically itched inside her pocket, wishing for her sketchbook.

She stayed on the balcony long after her friends and family left, staring out across the hills and valleys of this place now called home, trying to see if she truly did remember this version of the O.Z.. It seemed somehow less sinister and blackened than the place she'd been thrown into less than a week before. Had it truly only been seven short days in which her entire life had turned around?

She leaned against the heavy marble railing, elbows propping up her body as she sagged tiredly against the pillars. Her eyes raked quickly across her surroundings, and she could not remember the last time she'd paid so much attention to nature's beautiful palette. Kansas had been varying shades of dust and oatmeal that had not invigorated her life, instead dulling them to the point she didn't even notice most things anymore.

She saw a small line of people leaving the base of the tower, and noticed the way the sunlight was absorbed into the faded fabric of Cain's fedora as he led her family toward Jeb's forces. She figured Azkadellia would want to get as far away from the hellish reminders engraved in each stone within the tower, and their parents most likely shared their eldest daughter's desire to leave the prison that had entombed them for so long.

DG felt thankful relief when she realized her family had put aside their desire for a long overdue reunion, most likely understanding her overwhelming, mind numbing confusion at learning her entire life had been a carefully orchestrated lie--one borne of the best intentions, yes, but a falsehood nonetheless. She appreciated her parents' ability to give her space, to let her come to her own conclusions in her own time, to reach out only when she was ready.

She watched her friends and family march away like little ants, abandoning their longstanding home, ready to burrow through the dark, rocky ground and create a new life, a new center, a new way of living.

She smiled as she saw the leader stop and step to the side, allowing everyone to pass him, becoming their protector once again. He was always watching their backs, always putting them ahead of himself. She hadn't told Cain on the hillside, knowing he would not be comfortable with the admission, but his steadfastness had invigorated her over the past days, making her stronger willed than she already was--admittedly, an impressive feat. He'd dropped his bravado shortly after they'd met and revealed his true colors, no matter how unintentionally. He was a guardian of the highest order. He'd put himself between her and the Papay runners, between her and Zero, always willing to quietly sacrifice himself to save her. He'd understood their mission, their ultimate goal, better than she ever had, and it was his resolute faith that helped her fight through the fear and pain and pull herself up, literally and figuratively. She'd stared into the face of evil, unflinching and unwavering, strengthened by the things she'd learned from him.

She admired him for enduring all he had, surviving a trial of deception and fire. She wasn't sure she'd be able to experience the same horrors and still keep fighting, were she in his position.

She wasn't sure when she'd stopped looking at him as the man she'd rescued from a tin box, and when he became somewhat of a superhero in her eyes--flawed and broken, but a paladin all the same. No matter his tarnish, he was still _her_ savior, in more ways than one.

She noticed the object of her musings use his uninjured arm to shield his eyes from the intensity of the suns as he looked up at her. She raised her hand and waved briefly in acknowledgement, her smile widening as she watched him. Even across the great distance separating them, she knew that though he tipped his brim at her and turned back toward his son's fighters, he was scanning the surrounding area for straggling Longcoats. He was prepared to forbid them entry to the tower, even with a medium caliber slug still embedded in his shoulder and exhaustion weighing his bones.

She couldn't help but roll her eyes at his stubbornness, though she could not fault him for it, as she'd do the same thing to shield anyone else from harm. For heaven's sake, she'd charged into half a dozen men at least twice her size on a wing, a prayer, and a stick.

DG had been in relationships before, had been in love once or twice. She knew the signs and could diagnose them as quickly as a physician would be able to treat Cain's gunshot wound. She'd felt a pull to him, one easily ignored given the circumstances of their journey, but she could not cast aside the overwhelming relief she'd felt when she heard his miraculously alive "_hey there, Princess." _When she'd all but thrown herself at him, the cocoons in her stomach exploded into butterflies, wings unfurling and fluttering excitedly as his arms came around her. She'd jumped away from him as quickly as she'd leapt to him, knowing they had far more important things to deal with--as in, not dying--than a schoolgirl crush.

But her feelings had not been easily discarded, intensifying to an alarming level after their tight embrace outside the Grey Gale. They'd had to race the Eclipse back to Jeb's camp, and Cain had thrown her on the back of the steed, bringing the horse to a frenzied gallop even before he was properly situated behind her. She'd had to laugh when she'd realized he'd ridden to her rescue on an honest to goodness white horse, her knight in discolored armor. She'd felt his arm tighten around her waist, holding her closer than was probably necessary, as though holding her in place reassured him enough to get them from point A to point B.

Even his last words to her, a useless but somehow necessary _good luck_, confirmed that there was an undeniable chemistry, an unavoidable connection between them. Those words told her he'd do anything in his power to protect her, no matter how futile his head may have realized it to be. That was the one time she'd seen him blindly follow his heart.

Now, post-Eclipse, they could finally breathe a long overdue sigh of relief. They could let nature take its course, take their time in exploring the indefinable _something_ that lay between them, learn each other outside the confusing confines and events of the past few days.

She took one last look toward the horizon and turned to go join her family--biological or not--they were all hopelessly intertwined now. There was no discerning between the ties of DNA and the bonds of friendship.

She was halfway through the vast sitting room when she felt the rumbling start beneath her feet. Instinct stopped her movement cold, and as the tower teetered back and forth like a sailboat in a tempest, she felt the floor start to collapse from beneath her.

She didn't have time to scream. She didn't have time to even gasp or take a deep breath as though she were being plunged into water instead of nothingness. She had time to consciously note that she was falling, and that gravity was forcing her down at an ever increasing speed. Chunks of granite, concrete and plaster fell through the void with her, and before everything went quiet and black, she reached out a hand, seeking something to grab on to, seeking _someone._

Seeking Cain.

* * *

The explosion came so unexpectedly that Cain barely had time to cover his head, working more on impulse than conscious comprehension.

Reverberations shook the uneven ground around the tower as it imploded, and he fell to his knees, watching helplessly as a deafening roar and a storm of dust fanned out from the base and encompassed him. Through the din, he could hear faint exclamations and his son calling out for him as more detonations rocked around them.

The initial blast apparently caught the remnant gunpowder Jeb had used in the initial attack by the rebels on the Longcoats, and the resulting blasts destroyed the tower in under two minutes flat.

They were the longest two minutes of Wyatt Cain's life.

When the shaking stopped, the survivors were covered in soot and bleeding gashes, mostly defensive wounds from trying to shield themselves from falling debris. As the smoke cleared, it was deathly still, the silence broken only by shuddering coughs and deep breaths as they tried to rid their lungs of the particle dust.

They all stood, dumbfounded and staring, looking at the battlefield in front of them. What had been an imposing structure was now reduced to little more than splinters and cracks, jagged rocks piled haphazardly.

When his brain eventually reset itself, Cain realized his worst nightmare had just unfolded--DG was missing. Again. He'd failed to keep her safe. Again. He took off at a speed he'd never known lived within him, breaking for the pile of rubble and screaming the youngest princess's name as he ran.

He started pulling at the heavy chunks of stone, grunting with the effort of trying to shift the fallen rock. The top floors of the tower--the balcony where DG had faced the Witch, stronger and unbreakable than the floor on which she'd been standing--were in much larger pieces than the crushed foundation, and he quickly searched for an opening in the disaster, trying to find sections of more manageable sized debris to move.

He _had_ to find her. He _would_ find her. It couldn't end like this. It couldn't end again in heartbreak for him, for her, for them.

He became aware of Ahamo on his left, searching almost as frantically as the Tin Man, paper thin but painful lacerations digging into the palms of their hands. He heard Jeb call for all available personnel; the responding fighters charged the tower remnants with such force that their rumble rivaled the explosion, and Cain had to stop digging for a minute, eyes flinching shut at the onslaught of the sound.

He drowned out the sound by calling the princess's name over and over again, each utterance becoming more desperate. His voice quickly became hoarse, but still he persevered, clearing his dry, itchy throat, calling to DG and the gods of the O.Z., pleading for one last miracle, one more chance.

His son joined them, working with his second-in-command on his Cain's right. The two young men lifted larger pieces of rock, grunting as they shifted it just slightly to the right.

"We need heavier equipment," Jeb said. "Tools, something to break these into smaller pieces."

Cain didn't stop working as he replied, blinking beads of stinging sweat out of his eyes. "Go get them!"

"They're back at base camp. It'll take me some time."

"Just _go_, Jeb!"

From his peripheral vision, Cain saw Jeb speak quietly to his second, and then the Resistance captain took off like a shot, running up the hill to where his forces had hidden before the final battle. His small contingent of men created a semicircle around the wreckage, working in teams to move as much as they could, as quickly as they could.

There was a flash of silver on Cain's left, and he looked up, watching as Azkadellia dug next to her father, calling out her sister's name in concert with the Tin Man.

"Can you move this with your magic?" he demanded, clawing his way through the broken pebbles, shifting them beneath his fingers and not caring as they caught beneath his fingernails.

Az shook her head briefly, sadly. "The Witch…my magic's drained. I'd need DG's help to move something this massive anyway." She looked sorrowfully at him, brown eyes nearly black with unshed tears.

Cain nodded once, a half movement, before moving back to digging. He felt as though he were treading through quicksand, falling further and further behind, slipping further and further away from the princess. "DG!" he bellowed, his chest and gut clenching when he was met with stony silence. "DG! We're going to get you out!"

His silent pleas became a litany, a stream of consciousness, punctuated only by shallow breaths as panic started to take over.

_Hold on, kid. Just hold on. We're right here. I'm right here. Just hold on. Please hold on. _

_It can't end like this. It won't end like this. There's too much for you to do. Please, Ozma, let me get to her. Have to get to her. Get to her. Get to her. Get to her._

"DG!" he called again. "DG! Answer me, damn it!"

Cain grunted loudly as he moved another boulder, the adrenaline-laced panic fueling him forward, stronger, faster. He pitched forward as he discovered a hole in the rock pile, falling to his knees to dig faster. He reached his hand through, fingers sweeping in a wide arc for any trace of the princess. He met only more stone, and his second grunt was one of frustration, not exertion as he shoved them out of his way. He pressed his cheek to the ground, tilting his face toward the hole, which had widened slightly from his rearranging.

"DG! Can you hear me? _DG!_"

A faint sound reached his ear, and he stopped moving, holding his breath to better hear. He could feel the vibration and echoes of the men working above and next to him, and pulled his head out from the small hole, yelling for them to be quiet.

As quickly and loudly as the search and rescue mission had started, it fell to a hush just as fast. Cain pressed himself as closely to the small cavity as he could, calling out again. "DG!"

Tears filled his eyes as he heard a quiet moan from further back in the debris. He blinked them quickly away, trying to force himself toward the princess. Serrated rock pressed into his stomach and side, and he felt the sticky, warm flow of blood as one particularly sharp piece cut his shirt. "DG, I'm right here. I'm gonna get you out, kiddo."

He heard her breathe his name, and her voice was as quiet and thick with emotion as it had been during their conversation on the hill before the battle. Before everything had gone to hell.

"Can you move at all, DG?" he called, extending his arm. "Can you reach my hand?"

Her movements were slow and weak, but he felt the ends of her fingertips brush against his, and finally, he remembered how to breathe. "Okay, kiddo, that's good. That's real good." He turned his head as far to the left as he could, calling to the resistance fighters and the royal family. "She's about three feet deep, twelve o'clock from my position!"

There was loud movement above his head as some of the fighters moved from their positions on the flat ground to the top of the rock pile. The loose rock pressed onto Cain's arm, threatening to pin it, and he turned his head, yelling out to the searchers. "Stop moving! Get the fuck off the top! You'll crush her!"

He turned back to the darkness, to his princess, and wished the dying light of the suns could catch the blue of her eyes. She couldn't hide anything with a gaze as expressive as hers, and he knew he'd be able to better assess the situation if he saw her staring at him, openly and widely.

But he couldn't see anything except more rock, more black, more failure. He'd already lost her once, in the Realm of the Unwanted. It had taken a near miracle to get her back, and now he was threatened with losing her altogether, for good.

He shook his head, cheek scraping against the protruding rocks on his right. He wouldn't lose her. He wouldn't fail her like he'd failed his wife, his son, the men he'd led into battle. He pressed himself firmly into the small tunnel he'd created with his body, and caught her hand again. "DG, you still with me?"

She responded with a quiet hum in the affirmative, and he squeezed her fingertips. "I'm gonna get you out, DG, I promise. Just hang on for me, all right?"

He started to move backwards, planning to assess how best to reach her, when she cried out softly, the noise akin to the mewl of a kitten. He flattened himself against the mossy ground, pushing the toes of his boots into the soil and propelling himself as far into the channel as he could. He threaded the ends of her fingers with his and tried to make his voice reassuring. "It's okay, kiddo. I just need to see how best to get you out."

Her whispered words broke the heart he hadn't realized she'd started to mend. "Don't leave me, Cain."

"I'll be right back, darlin'. I'm not goin' anywhere unless you come with me."

He swore she chuckled, though it was wheezy in its execution. "You've been trying to get rid of me since we met."

He found his voice after a moment, suddenly and disconcertingly overwhelmed as he weighed the truth in her statement. "And, as usual, you won't listen to me."

She took another broken breath. "What's the fun in that?"

"I'll be right back," he repeated, pushing himself roughly out of the hole and sitting back on his haunches, surveying the destruction. She was trapped beneath the largest parts of the balcony; how she hadn't been crushed to death was beyond him. He got to his feet, sidled around the front of the debris field, and saw the answer: the curved railing of the balcony had fallen end over end, eventually landing on broken edges upside down. The rest of the rock had fallen around it, creating an air pocket and shielding the princess from the remainder of the remnants.

It was as if the gods had heard his plea and protected her. They'd kept their end of the bargain; now it was up to him to fulfill his part.

One of the resistance fighters had taken his identifying red scarf and placed it on top of the boulder in an estimation of where DG could be reached. The dozen or so men continued to work as Cain calculated, digging through the wreckage and trying to expand the tunnel leading to the princess.

Cain turned to his son's second. "What kind of tools do you have at the camp?"

The man, a few annuals older than Jeb, continued to push through the rock as he answered. His face was red from the effort, and his once white shirt was as brown as the boots he wore. "Chisels, hammers, shovels. We'll be able to break and move the rock more easily. Jeb'll also come with reinforcements. We've got thirty or forty able bodies. We'll make quick work of it."

Cain nodded, sliding back to his perch at the entrance of the hole. He pushed his shoulders further into the debris, wincing as some loose stones fell sharply and piercingly onto his injured shoulder. He searched for DG's hand again, and propelled himself forward, able to rub his fingers over her knuckles as he forced himself through. "Princess? You still there?"

She coughed out a laugh. "Not really up to going anywhere right now, Cain."

"Yeah, you've had a big day." _Keep her talking. Keep her with you. Don't let go. Whatever you do, don't let her go._ "Are you hurt?"

"Nothing a Band-Aid won't fix."

He had no clue what a Band-Aid was, but her tone indicated she still had her sense of humor. He breathed a small sigh of relief, taking it as a good sign. "Your parents and sister are out here. You want to talk to them?"

Her voice quieted. "No. I want you to stay."

"Okay," he replied easily, voice soothing as it had been when he'd discovered her with the Mystic Man as his former mentor came off the vapors. "Jeb's gone to get help and tools. Won't be much longer."

"I don't know how much longer I can hang on, Cain," she said softly, and he could hear the tears in her voice.

His body pressed instinctively toward her, and he tightened his hand around her fingers. "You're going to be fine, kiddo. We're gonna get you out."

"I think I have a concussion," she said after a long moment. "And it's getting hard to breathe…"

"Is there anything on your chest?"

A cough, and then, "Besides twenty floors of tower?"

He had to chuckle at that, the expulsion of breath disturbing the pulverized pebbles and blowing a dust cloud toward the brunette. "Yeah, besides that."

"No. The railing is blocking my torso. But I can't breathe."

"You're panicking." _I know, because I'm doing the same thing._ "Just concentrate for me, okay, kiddo? Just concentrate on taking long, deep breaths."

He heard her exhale deeply, and heard the rustle of the grass against her as she shifted slightly. "Don't move," he warned. "We can't disturb anything." It was unspoken, but understood, that if she shifted too much, the railing protecting her could buckle without warning.

"I was just turning my head. I wanted to see you."

"Can you?"

"No. It's too dark."

"The suns are starting to go down," he told her.

There was a long silence, and all he heard was the scraping of the rocks above his head. "DG?" he ventured, concerned when her hand started to go slack beneath his. "DG, don't go to sleep. You can't go to sleep if you have a concussion, kiddo."

"My head hurts. Everything hurts so badly, Cain."

"I know, sweetheart." The term of endearment slipped out without conscious thought, his tongue loosened by the gravity surrounding them. "I just need you to hang on a little while longer, kiddo. Just a little bit longer."

"Cain, if Jeb doesn't get here in time…"

"No." It was an order, harshly barked, one that echoed in the dark void. "That is _not_ an option. You hear me, Princess? You're going to be fine."

"I'm scared, Cain."

"I know you are, darlin'. I am, too."

His heart stopped when the pause before her reply extended into a full minute of unbearable silence. His eyes slipped shut in grateful relief when he heard a shuddering breath and sniffle from the vicinity of her hand. He held himself firmly against the entrance to the hole, shoulders pressing excruciatingly against the opening. He laced his fingers with hers, tilting her wrist backwards gently and running his thumb along her palm. He softened his voice again, his words for her ears only. "Don't cry, sweetheart. It's gonna be okay."

"Promise?" Her voice was so small; it reminded him of when Jeb was a young child, so scared of thunderstorms that he'd asked each night whether it was forecast to rain. He'd never seen DG lacking confidence. He'd almost forgotten she was actually a young woman, destructible, vulnerable.

She'd never broken, never blinked in the face of all that had been thrust upon her. She'd reminded him what faith was. As she finally started to falter, he took the persevering strength she'd shown him and returned it to her.

His voice was solid and unyielding when he replied. "I promise."

There was another pause before she spoke again. "Talk to me, Cain."

"What?"

"I'm feeling really sleepy, really out of it. I need to focus on something."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know, anything, everything. Just…talk to me. Tell me about yourself."

"You know pretty much everything there is to know about me."

"Liar. What's your favorite color?"

He couldn't help but laugh. "_That's_ what you want to know, kiddo?"

She wheezed for a minute before having enough air to reply, and he wondered if she hadn't broken a rib and punctured a lung. "I figured we'd just start out with the easy ones." When he remained silent, she softly squeezed his fingers. "Please, Cain. It's easier not to panic when I know you're there."

"I'm not goin' anywhere," he reminded her. He tilted his head to watch the rebels and the royals mix in their efforts to rescue the pinned princess. The surrounding grey, marred landscape reminded him of the battles he'd led during the last stand in Central City; he'd been in this position before, holding his men as they slipped from this world to the next. He'd lost so much then, and in the aftermath, and had felt incredibly useless and inadequate for the first time, unprepared and unable to respond in the particular crisis of losing first his men, and then his family.

He realized that now, he had a chance to rectify his failures; he'd neglected to keep those most important to him safe, had been forced to let go in order to survive.

He wasn't going to let go again.

He shoved his shoulders forward, pushing the rocks on either side of him away and widening the tunnel to the princess. He felt her fingers dance up to his wrist and he was encouraged when her hold on him tightened. His thumb rubbed over her wrist bone in response, making small, soothing circles over her soft skin.

Her tired voice cut through his musings. "Cain."

"I'm here, DG."

"Talk to me."

He searched his memory for a story--any story--that would keep her alert. He'd never been one to share much about his past, even with longtime friends, so exposing his history to the crown princess was something he couldn't quite fathom. Not to mention the fact that he wasn't all that interesting, and he was fearful his history would make DG fall asleep instead of keeping her awake.

"Come on, Tin Man. There's gotta be a skeleton or two in that closet of yours."

He kept circling his thumb gently around her wrist as he spoke. "Want to hear about the first time I met DeMilo?"

"Hell, I'll take you reading the Sox-Rays box score right about now."

"The what?"

"Never mind. Go on."

"I was maybe six months out of the Academy, working the night shift in the Red Light District. Just regular patrols, no undercover work or anything like that. Anyway, it's the end of my shift, and my partner and I are packing it in when we hear this high-pitched scream."

Dust and debris fell as the rescue teams worked above his head, making his eyes tear. "So we're thinking it's one of the working girls in trouble, and we take off. I'm ready to separate the john and the hooker, expect him to be drunk, and I'm figurin' I'll chuck him in the tank for the night, let him sleep it off. But instead of a hooker, I find DeMilo being beaten up by two older women for peddling his smut to their grandsons."

He heard her try to laugh, wincing as it turned into a deep, wracking cough. "Did you rescue him from Thelma and Louise?"

He didn't understand the reference, but caught the gist of her words. "Not at first. They were swingin' their handbags pretty good, and I figured he could stand to learn a lesson. But they finally broke his nose, so we had to break it up."

"Don't tell me you arrested them for assault and battery."

"Hell, no. We gave 'em a ride back to their apartments, dropped by to check on them once or twice a week. They were heroes. If they'd been younger, I would have signed them up for the Academy."

She coughed again, and he lowered his voice. "You hangin' in there, darlin'?"

"Trying to," she replied, a waver in her voice. "What made you become a Tin Man?"

"My father was a cop. So were my uncles."

"Family tradition."

"You should have heard the discussions at the holidays. It got worse when one of my uncles married his CO. They'd trade war stories--in graphic detail, mind you--and then pass the potatoes. I admired them a lot. It wasn't really a hard choice."

"I'd have given you a run for your money."

"I have no doubt about that," he replied. "How many speeding tickets did you average a month?"

He was pleased to hear mirth reenter her voice. "What makes you think I speed?"

"Don't think I didn't see your right foot press to the floor on the way to the Northern Island. You were wishing for a gas pedal of your own most of the way there, kiddo."

"Busted."

"Sorry."

"Once a Tin Man, always a Tin Man."

"Something like that."

She coughed harder as more rock moved above them. "How'd you and Adora meet?"

He expected the pang of hurt that spread through his chest; it was the combination of an old friend and a parasite, something he'd grown to understand and identify as it leeched through his body, his constant companion throughout his imprisonment in the suit. But the sting wasn't as sharp as it normally was, and he wondered why it had dulled, even so slightly. He'd let himself hope that Adora was alive when he heard Ralph confirm Zero's story that his family was still alive; seeing that grave marker had crushed him beyond measure, for it was a reminder that life was truly unfair, and that misplaced faith was a fate worse than most.

He realized that seeing Jeb alive and well had helped, reawakening his belief that sometimes good things happened to good people. He knew that Adora would always be a part of his life, a part of _him_, and he would find reconciliation with that fact just as he'd accepted her death so many annuals before.

He mentally berated himself when DG's hand tugged on his fingers. "Cain?"

"Sorry," he offered, clearing his throat. "You remember the lake at the cabin?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know if you noticed, but there was another dock on the opposite side of the water. She lived across the way, moved in with her family when we were about twelve or thirteen, I think. She and her parents had come over to introduce themselves, and I was in the pond with my friends, didn't pay her much mind until she jumped in, challenged me to a race to the other dock and back." He had to chuckle at the memory. "She kicked my ass."

DG laughed loudly, sending her immediately into spasmodic coughing. "My kind of woman."

"I think you'd have liked her. She was almost as stubborn as you."

"I take that as a compliment."

"You should."

Her more regulated breathing was a balm on his nervous soul. "You're doing great, DG. Just a little while longer."

"Thank you, Cain."

"For what, Princess?"

"Staying with me. Keeping me together."

"You're doing that all on your own, kiddo."

"Can't you just say _you're welcome_?"

"Not when I don't deserve it. I'm not doing anything."

She squeezed his fingers. "Sometimes you just need somebody to hold your hand."

"And tell you ridiculous stories about their childhood."

"That, too." She groaned as the rescuers shifted a particularly large piece of granite, and his heart rate tripled, thudding loudly in his ears.

He tried his damndest to sound calm. "What is it, sweetheart?"

"Whatever they just moved took a lot of pressure off my legs."

He breathed a silent sigh of relief. "We're getting close, DG. This'll all be over soon."

"I'll have to think of something even better for my next trick."

"I think it'd be a miracle if you stayed in one place and out of trouble for more than five minutes at a time."

"You're on."

It was fully dark when Jeb finally returned with the reinforcements, tools and a medic. The fighters formed a chain, hammering and chiseling at the biggest boulders, and quickly shoveling the broken pieces to the side. Cain still held tightly to DG's hand as the Queen, Azkadellia, Glitch and Raw fanned out around the base of the debris, holding torches and providing light for the workers, who found renewed strength as they dug ever closer to the trapped woman.

He murmured encouragingly to her, placations that were barely formed when they left his lips, but he continued to speak, praying with each bang of the tools on the rocks above that one would break through and return her to him. He heard the roar of an engine and smelled the diesel exhaust as someone pulled up one of the recovered Longcoat vehicles.

He blinked disbelievingly when he saw the glimmer of torchlight break through and illuminate their interlocked fingers. "You're through!" he called, and saw multiple sets of hands quickly lifting the last of the rock off the princess. The hole above her face became larger and larger, expanding from just a pinprick of light to a glorious spotlight of fire and moon, and he finally saw the baby blues he'd been missing for so many hours come into clearer focus.

The fighters continued to move rock from around her still body, and Cain no longer heard DG's panicked, shuddering breathing. She inhaled deeply as Jeb and seven of his men counted quietly and moved the upturned railing away from her.

Cain felt a hand on his back, and then a blonde woman--the cell medic, he figured--used her leverage against him to climb over the remaining rock and settle herself at DG's head. She spoke softly to the princess, placing her hands on either side of the brunette's neck and immobilizing it as best she could.

The medic nodded at Jeb, his second, and two other rescuers. The men climbed in the hole, kneeling on both sides of the princess and extending their arms into a tightened position and slipping them beneath her body.

"On my count," the medic said. DG tightened her fingers around Cain's, and the worried, scared look in her eyes made him momentarily thankful that he hadn't been able to see her during the darkest part of the night. Seeing this strong, stubborn, beautiful girl that unhinged would have unnerved him, possibly to the point of again rendering him useless.

As the medic counted to three and the resistance fighters rose to their feet, keeping DG perfectly still, the Tin Man rose with them, never relinquishing his hold on her hand.

He turned, allowing the rebels to walk the tunnel--now a path after all the rocks had been discarded--that had separated them from their princess. Ahamo stood at the base of the army vehicle, his arms around his wife and eldest daughter, all three covered in ash and soot, and all three cleansing their faces with their thankful tears.

Glitch and Raw stood on either side of the lowered gate, holding steady to a singed tower door that would act as a backboard for transporting DG to Central City General Hospital. The resistance fighters lowered her carefully to the warped wood, and the blonde medic used some adhesive tape to bind the princess gently in place.

Cain noticed DG's chest start to rise erratically as she was pinned down again, and without thinking, raised her dirty hand to his lips. "It's okay. Just a precaution," he promised. "It's a short ride to the hospital."

Her request was quiet in tone but not in simplicity. "Stay with me?"

He climbed into the back of the truck, holding her hand tightly to his chest. "As long as you need me to," he vowed, holding her intense gaze.

So much was said in their silent conversation; they expressed their overpowering gratitude, fear, and relief. As he rested her hand on his chest and tried to wipe some of the grime from her cheek, there was something deeper exchanged in the silence, something mostly indefinable but surprisingly akin to devotion.

As he kissed her knuckles again, he nodded at her, confirming his vow that he wasn't going anywhere.

He jumped when the medic banged her hand on the top of the cab. "Let's go!" she ordered, leaning over and holding the board in place as the car lurched forward. The engine growled to life, and Cain did not relinquish his protective hold on DG until they pulled into the emergency receiving area of the hospital twenty minutes later.

The medic leapt over the side of the truck, walking quickly to the hatch and lowering it. Two orderlies raced to meet the transport, and helped lower DG to a stretcher. Cain saw Jeb pull up behind them in a second vehicle, and the royal family exited as quickly as the resistance fighters, each placing a hand on the edges of the stretcher, swiftly keeping pace with the doctor as she rushed them through the admitting area.

Cain lost his grip on DG's hand as they swung her through the double doors heading to the examination area, and he stopped, leaning exhaustedly against the wall as the doors clanged shut.

Jeb came up next to him, rubbing at the back of his neck. "She'll be okay. Doc's damn good. She'll make sure DG's well taken care of."

Cain clapped a hand on his son's shoulder. "Thank you for your help."

Jeb shrugged. "No big deal." Cain had to arch a questioning eyebrow as the younger man scrutinized him closely before speaking again. "No offense, but you look like shit."

Cain's snort of laughter was exhausted and quiet. "I feel about that good, too, son."

"They have facilities that the doctors and nurses use, showers and the like. I don't think they'd mind if you took a breather."

Cain looked toward the door. "I think I'd rather wait for your medic to come back with an update."

Jeb nodded, an amused but understanding smile on his face. "I'll go find some chairs. We'll wait right here for Doc."

Jeb hadn't been gone five minutes when the Queen and Consort exited the exam area. Cain all but snapped to attention as they walked through the double doors.

The Queen smiled tiredly. "She's being admitted. She's got a concussion, several broken ribs, a fractured arm and a dislocated ankle." At Cain's wince, she placed a gentle hand on his arm. "It's a miracle she's alive at all, Mr. Cain. And after everything you've been through over the past few days, a few broken bones is a walk in the park."

Cain nodded. "I should go speak with the security team, ensure your safety while she stays here."

The Queen shook her head. "She's asking for you."

He faltered for a moment. "I don't want to intrude."

"Nonsense," Lavender replied. "You were the first family she knew here, Mr. Cain. You have as much right to be with her as the rest of us."

"Besides," Ahamo added, "if you don't go back there, I have a feeling she'll just come looking for you."

When Cain didn't move, the Queen tightened her grip slightly. "Go, Mr. Cain. I can take care of the security matters."

Cain nodded his thanks and pushed through the heavy doors. He saw Azkadellia sitting at her sister's bedside and stopped short of the doorway, not wishing to interrupt.

DG saw him approach, however, and smiled. "I thought you'd run out on me."

He shook his head and tried to give her a half-grin. "I thought about it."

Az rose from the chair, pausing to kiss her sister's forehead. "No swinging from the chandeliers, little sister."

DG feigned a pout. "Jesus, you guys never let me have any fun."

The eldest princess rolled her eyes, but as she turned to leave, the fluorescent lights in the hospital room caught the stain of tears threatening. Cain offered what he hoped was a sympathetic smile, and Az softly smiled her thanks before rejoining her parents in the waiting area.

The hiss of recycled air was the only noise as princess and Tin Man stared at each other. Finally, she broke the stalemate, choosing levity as her weapon. "Are you going to sign my casts? I was hoping I'd get to choose different colors--pink for the ankle, green for the wrist--but apparently you guys are behind the times and only offer white."

She was trying to make _him_ feel better, he realized, and his eyes slid shut in mild disbelief as he shook his head.

She beat him in saying anything further. "Sit down, Cain. Take a load off."

He did as she suggested, and the hard backed, unforgiving chair cushioned his battered body, releasing the remaining tension that had not dispelled with her recovery.

"You should get looked at while we're here," she said softly, picking at a loose thread on the green hospital blanket and twirling the loop around her index finger.

He looked at her curiously. "What?"

"Your shoulder. You should have it examined."

"It's just a flesh wound. Raw can heal it later. Besides, you need someone to make sure you stay out of trouble."

She held out her hand, and he took it without further thought, lacing their fingers together. "I couldn't have gotten through any of this without you, Cain."

He shook his head, looking at the floor when he could not face her. "I should have gotten you out of the tower."

"You _did _get me out."

He finally pinned her with a halfway annoyed and altogether serious look. "You know what I mean. I shouldn't have left you up there by yourself."

"It doesn't matter now," she replied. "You didn't leave me alone when it mattered. That's what's important. That's what means the most to me." She turned away from him and coughed harshly, spasms shaking her tiny body as her lungs fought to dispel the contaminating elements from her chest. He reached for the small glass of water that had been left for her, standing and reaching over the bed, helping her take a sip.

Her hand covered his as it held the cup, and he reveled in the reassuring warmth of her fingers pressed completely and unfalteringly against his.

Of its own volition, his free hand rose from his side to run tenderly across the side of her cut and bruised face. He tucked one of her curls behind her ear, and leaned toward her as she reached up and cupped his cheek.

He leaned down and rested the side of his face against hers, and both their eyes slipped shut as they breathed in the relative safety of the other's presence.

There would be a long recovery process, rehabilitation. There would be an investigation into the destruction of the tower. There would be reestablishment of the Zone, of the Royal Family's seating. There would be retrieval of her history, her magic. There would be his appointment as head of the Academy, and his son's enrollment as the family tradition continued.

There would be more shared stories of their lives before they met, and there would be a race from one dock to the other during a midnight summer swim where their laughter danced from the inky water to a starlit sky.

All of it would come in due time, but for now, all that mattered was him, her, and their linked fingers.

Because sometimes all you need is someone to hold your hand.

FIN


	14. So Few Words

_A little change from the one-shots of late. These drabbles were written for the tinman100 challenge community on Livejournal. The prompts are listed next to the title of each drabble. The body of each piece is 100 words exactly._

_The characters and references herein are not mine (save for Ainsley in "Whisper". That piece takes place pre-"Scrutiny".) The titles for a few drabbles come from songs: "House of A Thousand Dreams" is by Martina McBride and "Lonely Enough" is by Little Big Town (and it's SUCH a Jeb/Doc song, it's ridiculous...moving right along). I also reference the Dixie Chicks song "Wide Open Spaces" in drabble number two, "In High Definition"._

_Angst warning applies, though I don't think it's crazy bad in here._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**House of A Thousand Dreams** (prompt: kitchen)

She'd tried so hard to make the cabin home, sewing polka dotted yellow curtains for the kitchen windows and a quilt for his bed.

It all meant nothing now. The four walls were nothing more than rickety wood and rusty nails, and the sense of security he'd experienced in a fleeting moment of blind faith and stupidity was as dead as his mother was.

After his men rescued him from the iron suit, Jeb did not go back into the house. Instead, he pulled the warped door shut and locked everything away, letting the sunshine fade it all into nothing.

* * *

**In High Definition** (prompt: moss, with a decidedly me twist)

She missed a lot of things from back home; it was one expectation she had no trouble meeting in her new role as Ozian princess. Most of them were items her friends and family understood her attachment to: her clothes, her motorcycle, her sketchbook and pencils.

But it was missing the little things that stung her most. She missed the _SportsCenter_ theme song and the highlights of Randy Moss in high definition on Sundays. She missed chocolate chip pancakes at 3 AM. She missed the Dixie Chicks and their touted _room to make her big mistakes._

She missed _her _life.

* * *

**Whisper** (prompt: warrior)

When Jeb looked over his shoulder at her, possibly for the last time, Ainsley couldn't conceive of anything to say, short of _if you die, I'll kick your ass into next week._ Lighthearted, confident, fearless; everything she could not be for him in that moment.

There were a thousand things to say, a thousand ways in which to say them, but she was struck mute as he departed, riding to the tower alongside his father. She stood in the clearing long after he'd gone, hoping against hope he'd heard her quiet declaration of love over the thundering of horse hooves.

* * *

**Simple as a Sister** (prompt: cheer)

Since the Eclipse, it hadn't mattered who tried to pull her from the vastly overwhelming guilt, or the methods they utilized in their efforts to move her past the history she'd sullied.

Her parents' encouraged trips to Finaqua hadn't helped. Neither had getting lost in the library for hours with Ambrose. Azkadellia had eventually made peace with the fact that she would--_should_--never find peace.

Then DG found her lying in the overgrowth near the gazebo, flopped unceremoniously beside her in the grass, and silently took her hand. No words were said, no elaborate plans made.

Azkadellia finally started to heal.

* * *

**Lonely Enough** (prompt: visit)

She'd expected to one day visit her parents when they were just shells, their minds taken by shapeless but vicious monsters called _strokes_ or _Alzheimer's. _She'd expected them to look at her vacantly, no flicker of recognition in response to her laughter or her tears.

She never imagined she'd be visiting them in a dusty, abandoned laboratory, or that they'd be unceremoniously cast aside into the darkest recesses of a drafty basement room.

She'd never imagined that her tears would physically tarnish them, rusting them beyond all hope of recovery.

She had, however, imagined just how badly it would hurt.


	15. Terra Firma

_Author's Notes: Any individual or specific plot points you recognize do not belong to me. No infringement is intended. However, the characters of Ainsley, Ashby, Julia and Emily do belong to me. We also have a lot of references in this puppy. I'll explain them after the story. :)_

_This fic takes place about nine years post-RBFOD, and ten years pre "Family"._

_The prompt ("Do I even want to know how you got up there?") came from the LJ community tinmanfic._

_This is for Meredith Paris, who wanted something fluffy because she had a the worst day ever. I hope you enjoy this, darling._

_Thanks to Lattelady for the Ainsley nickname and for the discussion on the TRUE meaning of Lylo's "She searches through the east for love." I hope you don't mind that I borrowed it for a minute. Don't worry, I'll give it back, all shiny and like new. :)_

* * *

Cain's boots echoed loudly through the empty hallways, the heels of his shoes cutting through the streams of moonlight painted across the stone floors of the castle. He swung open door after door, laser-like eyes searching the darkened confines of the mammoth palace. His ears remained trained for the slightest sound; the shift of fabric or the hitch of breath as those he sought hid amongst the shadows.

The echoes of the castle played tricks on his senses, especially tonight, as his patience waned with the dusky sunlight. He heard the light, merry tinkling of giggles, but like a hall of mirrors, the sound bounced off one wall and to another, leaving it impossible for him to tell where it had originated.

He stopped several times and assessed his surroundings, thinking quickly as to where the week's designated _best hiding places_ could have been located. He'd already ruled out the Queen's office, the back corners of the library and the Laboratory Wing. After the last forced game of hide-and-seek whereupon one daughter had inadvertently dyed her sister's hair pink with one of the elements of Ambrose's, he'd put his foot down and banned any hiding places that involved cogs, chemicals and machinery.

He heard another laugh, and then a frenzied _shhh_ coming from his right. He turned on his heel and marched purposefully toward the sound, fighting to keep the smile off his face.

He pushed the door open, letting it whine loudly in warning, the creek reverberating off the low ceiling. There was another series of hurried movement in the shadows as the door clanged shut, and Cain lit the overhead lamps. The warm, diffused orange glow cast itself in a triangle throughout the room, and caught the shine of black shoes before they were hurriedly yanked away to again hide in the lingering shadows.

The door opened again behind Cain, and the former Tin Man turned, smiling as his daughter-in-law walked in behind him. He pointed silently to the back of the room, and the blonde medic nodded, moving to her right. Cain walked to the left, and the two adults circled in opposite arcs, quietly approaching the back corner.

Cain jumped as Ainsley's face was the first one to come into focus. In turn, she looked questioningly at him, her dark eyes narrowing in confusion.

"You sure they're back here?" she questioned, looking around at the boxes and crates littering the scuffed, grey floor, searching for hiding spaces that would call to nine-, seven- and five-year-old troublemakers like siren's songs.

"I know I heard them," Cain replied, annoyed, shaking his head.

Both adults heard another telltale giggle, but it did not come from directly in front of them. Instead, it echoed above in the wooden rafters, and both blond searchers looked up. Cain was able to keep his face neutral, but the medic let out a brief but fully disbelieving laugh before putting her hands on her hips.

Three pairs of shiny Mary Janes swung above them, a kaleidoscope of color as they moved back and forth in the torch and moonlight.

Cain shook his head at the suspended children, who were perched on the wooden girders, the colors of which faded into differing, cracking shades of yellow depending on their distance from the cathedral style windows of the attic storage room. "Do I even want to know how you got up there?"

His daughter-in-law was less amused. "Ashby Danielle Cain, what in Ozma's name are you _doing_?"

The towheaded little girl bit her lip, pondering her reply, as her mother impatiently tapped her foot. "Helping Emmy," Ashby finally replied, holding steadfast to the corner girder and the chubby hand of her youngest cousin.

"And how is being fifteen feet off the ground helping Emmy?" Ainsley demanded, searching the dark room for a ladder with which to get the children back on terra firma.

The eldest princess, Julia, answered for her companions, bright blue eyes shimmering with worried tears. "It's all my fault, Aunt Ains. Tutor was teaching me how to leva--levim--make things fly, and I wanted to see if I could make big things move, not just Mommy's doll."

A rumble left Cain's chest, beginning its existence as a laugh, but eventually forcing its way out into a cough, lest his mirth be noticed by the Troublesome Threesome. Once the girls had learned their antics tended to amuse those who were trying to scold them, they had an uncanny knack of wiggling their way out of trouble with little more than a gap-toothed grin and a mischievous giggle. "So you thought you'd experiment on your _sister_, Julia?"

"It was an accident!" the brunette insisted. "I promise, Daddy, I didn't mean to."

Cain pinched the bridge of his nose, trying in futility to control the migraine pulsing in his temples. "All right, that explains why Emmy is up there, but how do the two of you figure in to the equation?"

Julia scratched idly at her freckled nose. "Well, Emmy was scared being up there all by herself, so I lifted Ash up to go keep her company."

"And then I made Jules fly, Daddy!" his youngest proudly announced, legs swinging above her father's head.

"Oh, dear gods in heaven," Ainsley muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. "I suppose it would be safe to say that not one of you girls thought enough ahead to figure out a way _down_."

"Tutor didn't teach me that lesson today," Julia admitted with a sad shake of her head. For her part, Emily continued to swing her legs happily, humming the song her mother sang to her every night at bedtime.

Ainsley conducted a more thorough search of the room, looking for a ladder or easily moveable crates that could be piled and allow the girls to lower themselves back to the storage room floor. For his part, Cain took a step back and opened his arms. "All right, girls, jump."

"What?" the medic cried. "They're liable to break their necks!"

"That's why you're here. Immediate medical attention." Cain winked as his daughter-in-law. "Come on, Ains. While the Queen's away…"

Ainsley rolled her eyes. "Her husband apparently goes insane." She rubbed at her forehead, dark eyes sliding shut. "Well, we _are_ just around the corner from the medical ward. Best place in the palace to break a bone, I suppose."

Cain nodded, clapping her on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, Ainsley." He tilted his head to look back up at the girls. "All right, Emmy-lou, you first."

Emily giggled and let go of the hands she'd been holding on to, and the hiss of air that forced her toward the floor drowned out with her giggles and squealing . She landed squarely on Cain's chest. "Hi, Daddy!" she chirped, tapping her legs happily against his thighs.

"Hi, Ems," Cain replied, kissing her on the forehead and putting her firmly on the ground. He shook his index finger at her. "Don't move."

He faced back toward the rafters, and reached for Julia, who was more graceful in her descent. Her weight was more than her sister's, causing Cain to bend his knees as he caught her. They remained eye-to-eye as the bottoms of her shoes sang against the stones and crevices of the floor. "Jules, you need to be careful when you practice your magic. No repeating lessons unless your mother or Aunt Az is there. Is that understood?"

The sensitive girl still had tears in her eyes, and Cain pulled his little girl into a protective embrace. "I'm not mad, Jules. You just need to be more careful, okay, kiddo?"

Julia sniffled and wiped her eyes. "Yes, sir."

"That's a good girl." Cain stood to his full height and finally helped Ashby down from the beams, letting her step on his shoulders before he knelt to the floor and let her disembark. His granddaughter and daughter-in-law were soon having one of their famous silent conversations, and as they left the storage room, Cain knew Ashby had already been grounded by the way the curly-haired blonde girl kept her chin firmly attached to her chest, her eyes concentrated on the floor.

Ainsley kept a firm hand on Ashby's shoulder as the group moved from the industrial wing of the palace to where their chambers were located. Ashby gave the princesses a quick hug before retreating to her mother's room, tightened, forward rolling shoulders a sign of preparation for the stern talking-to she was about to receive.

Cain looked down to the dark-haired little girls holding tightly to his hands. "All right, Thing One and Thing Two," he said, using his wife's nicknames for their girls, "bath and bed."

Emily pouted. "What about story time, Daddy?"

He knelt in front of her. "Don't you think not having story time is a good punishment for making me and Aunt Ains wander all over the castle looking for you?"

The youngest princess shook her head immediately, her dark curls catching the edge of her mouth in her vehemence. "It was an _accident_, Daddy. Jules didn't mean to make me fly. Anyway, it was _so_ cool! You can't punish cool things."

"I can't?"

Emily crossed her pudgy, dimpled arms and shook her head again. "Nope."

"We're going to talk about that one, Em. In the meantime, go wash up." He rustled her bangs before sending her toward her bedroom.

Julia stepped to her father, eyes downcast, hands wringing. "It--it's my fault, Daddy. Ash and Emmy shouldn't get in trouble when it was my fault."

Cain rested on his heels as he looked at his eldest daughter. "What did Tutor say to you on your first day of lessons, Julia Rose?"

"_One step at a time_," she recited solemnly.

Cain nodded. "And what else?"

"Not to play with my magic and focus it on other people."

"That's right. Do you think making your sister and cousin fly broke that rule?"

Her reply was a sad whisper. "Yes, Daddy."

"Do you think you should be punished for breaking that rule?"

He could see her searching for the correct answer, and finally, she nodded. "No swimming for a week," she said.

Cain fought not to raise his eyebrows. He'd expected her to pick a punishment--that was the Cain house rule when an infraction took place--but swimming was her favorite thing. Most kids--at least, the few he'd come into contact with--would choose something they enjoyed but could live without. They'd never give up their favorite thing. _Just another reason the Gale women are heads and shoulders above the rest._

Cain gathered Julia into a protective embrace and kissed the top of her head. "I think that's a good idea, Jules. No swimming tomorrow or Thursday, but you can show Mommy how you learned to backstroke when she gets back on Friday, okay?"

Julia sniffled, and Cain rubbed her back. "That's my girl." He rose from his knees, extending his hand to her. His hands still enveloped hers thoroughly, but he remembered a time when her hand was so tiny that it couldn't even grasp his index finger fully. And now, she was almost eight years old, and he couldn't remember where the time had gone. The curious infant who tended to fall asleep in the bassinette by her mother's chair in Parliament was growing into a gentle, sensitive--and magically talented, it seemed--young lady.

When Julia entered the bathroom she shared with Emily, the youngest Cain girl was already hopping barefoot to her bed. She eschewed the more formal, faux-silk material of her sister's nightgowns, instead demanding she wear her mother's faded Jason Varitek Red Sox t-shirt. It fell well past her knees, and before the previous spring's growth spurt, Em had been forced to pick up the corners and walk carefully with it, identical to the way her mother walked in formal gowns as she tried not to trip.

Emily hopped onto her single bed, pausing to rearrange her stuffed animals along the wall of the room. She bounced on the mattress, balancing on her knees as Cain walked to her side. "Hands?" he asked, and she held up her palms, letting him inspect them for cleanliness. "Teeth?"

"Brushed," she announced, smiling widely to show off the shine from the toothpaste.

"Braids or ponytail?"

"Ponytail, please," the little girl replied, turning her back to her father and handing over her comb. With expert hands, he pulled the dark locks through a hair tie, pulling the comb's teeth through the waves.

"That's a girl," Cain said, tickling her sides when he was finished running a hand over her smooth head. He pulled down the comforters and she flopped against the oversized pillows, sinking into the fabric duvet as though it were quicksand, still giggling as her father's fingers ran over her stomach. Once her laughter dissolved into the occasional chuckle, she wiggled her toes, reminding Cain to pull a corner of the blanket back so she could stick her toes out.

Once her feet were exposed, Cain kissed his daughter's forehead. "Good night, Em-an-em."

Emily's blue eyes widened in terror. "But, Daddy, you have to do the song! And the story!"

"I think that's a special thing between you girls and your mom."

"I can't go to sleep without the song and the story, Daddy. I just _can't_." It was clearly apparent which stubborn parent she took after--the one with the dramatic streak wider than the crack of the O.Z.

Julia walked quietly into the room, brushing her hair and putting her dark locks in a tight ballerina's bun, atop her head. She slid into her own bed, the rustling of the silk of her pajamas and the soft cotton of her sheets catching Cain's attention. His sensitive first born was still clearly upset, and Cain patted Emily on her calf before crossing the expansive room to sit on Julia's bed.

"What's up, Jules?" he asked quietly.

She pulled her knees to her chest. "Nothing."

"What's Rule Number One in this household, Jules?"

"Always knock on your and Mommy's door, even if you're laughing and we want to be part of the game."

Cain bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "Okay, Rule Number Two, then."

"No lying."

"Exactly." He put a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "I'd really like to hear what's on your mind, Jules. Are you still upset about getting punished?"

Julia shook her head. "Not really."

That surprised her father. "Why not?"

"'Cause I _did_ break the rules, and I know what happens when I do. So I deserve to be punished."

How he and DG had ever made such an insightful, respectful little girl was beyond him. "Okay," Cain said, rubbing his daughter's back, "then why are you so upset?"

"Because I made you mad."

"Mad? Oh, honey, I wasn't mad at you. I was disappointed you didn't think your actions through very well, but I'm not mad."

Big blue eyes blinked up at him. "You should be."

"Jules, sometimes things go wrong, even when you have the best of intentions. You just have to learn from your mistakes and remember for the next time."

She blinked away her tears, refilling her eyes with hope instead of distress. "Does that mean I can make Emmy fly again?"

"We'll talk about that one with Tutor and your mother, okay?"

Julia picked at the golden fireflies on her lavender bedspread. "I miss her."

Cain nodded, a soft smile on his face. "I do, too, kiddo. But she'll be back soon."

"Do you mind staying with us instead of going with her?"

Cain tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"You were with her for such a long time. You went everywhere with her, until we came along. Don't you miss traveling and being with Mommy?"

"Well, I get to be with Mommy when she's here, and she doesn't have to travel as much as your Uncle Ambrose and Aunt Azkadellia. And I wouldn't trade you two crumb snatchers for anything in the whole of the O.Z."

One final, pitiful sniffle. "Really?"

"Really."

She leaned against his chest, and Cain wrapped an arm around her tiny shoulders. "I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too, Jules. Lie down."

The girl did as she was asked, folding her arms behind her head while Cain pulled his wife's chair toward the center of the room. The chair had been part of the furniture set in the room since before Julia was born, and DG had spent every night since--when her schedule allowed it, anyway--watching over their girls. Cain had wrapped an afghan around her shoulders the many nights she'd fallen asleep, curled up in the rocking chair, mere inches away from their daughters.

He'd never thought he'd have a chance like this again, to be a father again, to watch the world through a child's eyes. Everything truly was magical, and the sensation had nothing to do with the abilities of his wife or his in-laws. He'd found redemption in ten tiny fingers and toes, impossibly blue eyes, and mohawks of dark hair.

He'd found peace in two little girls learning to swim in the lake at Finaqua, in their giggles as they hid from their babysitter and snuck down to hide behind the potted plants when their mother threw a formal ball they were not to attend. But DG and Cain had never scolded or sent them back to bed; instead, Julia would dance with her beloved Uncle Ambrose, her toes on his boots and her tongue sticking out as she concentrated on following his dance steps. Emily always made a beeline for her Aunt Azkadellia, and the older woman swung her niece around. The gleeful cheers of the Gale-Cain heirs were more musical than anything the orchestra could have played.

Emily's impatient tapping against the mattress pulled him from his memories, and he turned to face his youngest daughter. "Yes, Emily?"

"Song and story, Daddy."

"I don't suppose there's a way to get you to drop the song part, huh, kiddo?"

Emily shook her head firmly, loose strands of hair dancing across her cheeks. "Sorry, Daddy." She said it with such finality and a _that's how it's going to be whether you like it or not_ tone that Cain wondered if she'd taken up the habit of hiding beneath her mother's desk during foreign council meetings, and by proxy, taken lessons in negotiation and diplomacy while she colored.

He looked between his girls, their eyes identical to those that had come into his life almost ten annuals before. Though the circumstances had changed drastically, he was still useless around that particular shade of blue, and found himself giving in once again. "All right," he sighed, catching the triumphant grin between his daughters, "what story are we on?"

Julia settled against her fabric wrapped headboard, folded arms pillowing her head. "Mommy was telling us about a long time ago, in a place far, far away called Boston. Boston had once been a happy town, until their arch nemeses--"

"Yankees SUCK!" Emily interjected.

"Thank you, Em. Their arch nemeses"--pronounced nemis-ises-- "kept trying to take over Boston. So a group of men calling themselves the Red Sox started to fight against the Yankees. They fought every day for eighty-six years. They lost every time, until one day, the brave head of the Red Sox--his name was Theo--brought in fighters from far-away places. The battles raged and raged, but the Red Sox finally prevailed, and everybody lived happily ever after."

Cain couldn't help but laugh. "_That's_ the story your mother tells you at bedtime?"

Julia looked concerned. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing, honey. I just thought you might be hearing about fairy princesses and knights in shining armor."

Emily laughed loudly, flopping against her pillows in her amusement. "That's _boring_," she informed her father. "That's a story for little _girls. _I don't want to be a princess who only waits for the prince to rescue her when I grow up." She crinkled her nose. "No, thank you. Ew."

"And what _would _you like to be when you grow up, Emmy?"

"A switch-hitting third baseman."

"Well, maybe your mom can give you some pointers. I hear she was a mean softball player on the Other Side."

"Did you always want to be a Tin Man, Daddy?" Julia asked, pulling her blanket up her chest.

"I sure did, sweetheart."

Julia's light eyes darkened slightly as she pondered seriously. "Is it okay that I don't know what I want to do when I grow up?"

Cain rose from his chair and went to kneel by his daughter's bedside. "Did you know that your mom didn't know what she wanted to be until after she came to the O.Z.?"

Julia shook her head, and her father continued. "Everybody comes to their decisions in their own time. There's no rush." He patted her hand.

Emily sighed. "I'm tired of being little. I want to get on with things. There's so much to do!"

Cain smiled, looking between his daughters. "There's plenty of time to grow up. Just…"

"Take one day at a time," Emily finished for him. "I remember."

"You gotta get some new material, Dad," Julia admonished, rubbing at her eyes.

Cain chuckled quietly. "I'll keep that in mind." He kissed Julia's forehead again, and then moved over to the other side of the room to do the same to Emily.

"Goodnight, girls," he said from the doorway, watching as Julia waved her palm over the small lamp on the shared nightstand, casting the pale yellow glow of a nightlight.

"'Night, Daddy. Love you," they responded in chorus, and Cain clicked the door shut behind him.

He'd gotten two steps from the door when Emily called out. "What about our song?"

Cain fought the urge to beat his head against the wall. He'd hoped they'd forgotten. Opening the door, he asked, "What's your request, girls?"

Emily and Julia looked between each other, and as he always was, Cain was fascinated by the way they interacted so silently and knowingly. DG told him that it wasn't uncommon for twins to develop secret languages or some kind of telepathy, but she'd never heard of girls two years apart achieving such proficiency. Cain had laughed and kissed his wife's cheek. _"You Gale girls can't do anything normally, can you?"_

Cain leaned in his daughters' doorway, crossing his arms and resting one ankle over the other as he waited for a response. Finally, Julia and Emily nodded, and the eldest princess looked back at her father. "Joy to the World."

Cain's brows knotted. "The Christmas carol?"

"No, Daddy!" Emily giggled. "Three Dog Night."

_It's a damn good thing you're beautiful, DG,_ Cain thought, _because I'd be forced to kill you for teaching our daughters all these damn Other Side songs._

Sighing, he moved back into the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind him. He'd have to kill anyone who overheard him sing, and he didn't think his wife would like reading all the paperwork if he did.

With a hand in his hair, and an embarrassed expression on his face, Wyatt Cain--Tin Man and Savior of the Realms--sang, "Jeremiah was a bullfrog…"

* * *

Instead of retreating to his chambers after his requested concert, Cain found himself climbing the narrow stairs to the tower roof. He smiled sadly when DG was not waiting for him--he knew she'd been called to the ends of the Zone, part of her ongoing diplomacy with the eastern cells, but it was a rare time indeed when they were separated for a night, making tonight's absence all the harder. Even if they were running in a thousand--mostly opposite, given their varied duties--directions most of the day, they always found time for each other as the grandfather clock in the main foyer counted between eleven and twelve o'clock. The chimes were a summoning sound, bringing Queen and Consort to the roof, no matter what they'd previously been invested in. He tended to arrive before her, carrying his paperwork and a thick blanket.

She'd change out of her 'royal' clothes, as she called them, opting instead for one of his dress shirts and what she called 'pajama pants'--thin cotton fabric in a pattern he was sure was meant for a man--perhaps a soft cotton sweater when the temperature started to fall. She'd open the door to the roof and he'd turn, offering the smile she'd once told him could soothe even the jumpiest and distrusting of the Technicolor turkeys. She'd wrap herself in his arms, breathing in the safety of the embrace, before letting him lower them to the ground. He'd put his legs straight out in front of him, and she laid her head in his lap, resting her paperwork on his knees. His left hand tended to hold his work, and his right inserted themselves in his wife's wavy hair. His fingers ran soothingly across her scalp, down her neck and to her shoulders, and soon, she'd fully relax and snuggle into him and let her paperwork catch on the wings of the night breeze, threatening to send it over the edges of the balcony.

He'd started to notice when she started to fall asleep, so he'd slide her papers out of her hand and secure them beneath his. He'd let her sleep as long as she wanted, for her normal days and nights left little breathing time, let alone the ability to take a twenty-minute nap, no matter how much she may have needed it.

Tonight, as he pushed open the roof door, he did not smell her intoxicating scent, the odd combination of diesel exhaust (for she hid herself in the palace garages when she needed time to think) and the flora at Finaqua, most noticeably the lilacs and lilies. She would return in two days, and he felt a fool for worrying about her so much. She was a strong woman--ruler of the Realms for Ozma's sake; she'd battled down Longcoats, Witches, her own _people, _some of the darkest things ever known to an Ozian--but he was also just his wife, the mother to his children. The last time he'd been in this position, he had planned carefully, quietly, and his first wife had still paid the ultimate price.

Now DG was running headfirst into the situations she was faced with, and though her trusty stick had been replaced by half a dozen guards Cain himself had trained, he knew there was still little planning on her part, and that she could be careless if she saw a wrong that needed to be righted.

He walked to the edge of the balcony and pressed his hands against the stony railing, looking up at the twinkling twilight sky. He smiled, feeling the coolness of his wedding ring against the granite. He pushed down, wishing it was his wife's soft back beneath his fingers, and not some limestone/granite mixture.

He was so surprised to feel a pair of arms wrap around his waist that he swung the intruder around effortlessly, pinning him against the wall.

The surprised, high-pitched squeak should have been his first clue that it wasn't an assassin. Instead, DG's blue eyes looked up at him, halfway concerned and halfway curious.

As his mouth fought for a reply, she leaned up and kissed him gently. "I can't stay long, but I wanted to kiss the girls goodnight."

"You just missed 'em," Cain said, rubbing his thumbs over her cheekbones as he drank in the sight of her.

"Damn," DG sighed. "Well, I guess I could just kiss _you_ goodnight."

"I wouldn't want make the Queen do something she might find uncomfortable."

DG grinned and rose on her tiptoes. She smelled like roses, sunshine and earthy grit, but there was a darker, headier taste to her kisses, found only in the depths of her velvet mouth. The combination on his tongue assailed his senses, and he wanted to drink it in as long as she'd let him.

He lifted her up on the edge of the railing, and she spread her legs open just enough that Cain could stand in front of her, and DG could lock her ankles behind his knees and hold him in place, close to her. He looked up at her, trailing a finger down her neck and under her skin, and soon, his kisses followed his hands, traveling from her left collarbone to her right. She tilted her head back as he kissed the underside of her cheek, dark hair spilling down the back of her--his--dress shirt, and he began to undo her blouse.

The garment caught the breeze and lifted away from her sides. Cain kissed his way down his wife's body, not teasing or eager to hear her come--quite different from the normal way they made love. Something in him wanted to show how thankful he was to have found someone like her, someone so gorgeous and accepting of his past--hell, she loved Ashby as if she was their own, never referring to the girl as 'our granddaughter'. She and her mother were as much part of their family as Az, Julia and Emily.

As he kissed her way to her bellybutton, he rested his head above her pubic bone, pressing his chin lightly into her abdomen to look up at her. "I love you, Princess."

She smiled, running a hand through his short hair, before cupping his cheek and rubbing her thumb over the bone. "I love you, too, Cain."

He smiled, moving back up her taut torso, pressing light, open mouthed kisses to her breasts before meeting her eye-to-eye. He looked at her seriously, and DG read the situation immediately, cupping his cheek and forcing him to look at her. "What is it, Cain? Talk to me."

"I worry about you when I'm not there to watch your back."

"I know." She kissed his cheek. "But if you were with me, and we left the Troublesome Threesome with Az and Glitch, I don't know if we'd have a home to come home _to_, the way Ambrose keeps tying to get Julia to help him."

"At least we'd have a medic on standby," Cain said, a half-smirk crossing his face.

DG sighed. "I trust you with the things most precious to me, Wyatt Cain--you, the girls, Ainsley and the rest of our motley little family. I do so much better when we're apart because I know I don't have to worry about what's going on in Central City; I know you've got it under control, and that leaves what little brainpower I do have available to focus on being King of the World."

"I thought this week you were King of the Lab."

DG shook her head. "Ambrose claimed that one. Can't blame him, though, it does fit."

The grandfather clock chimed downstairs, and DG sighed.

"Time to go?" Cain asked, and the Queen nodded.

He offered her his arm. "May I, m'lady?"

"Of course, kind sir."

As they paused in front of the doorway to button her shirt, they both looked at the quiet, safe seclusion of their own "special place". DG had rocked with the first Queen on a swing at Finaqua, beautiful grounds, surrounding magical woods. But this Queen, who was so different from her mother, this Other Sider who bored him to tears with all things New England sports, plus the _SportsCenter_ theme song (_why_ she was such a fan of teams in a different time zone and 1,500 miles away from the Kansas farmhouse, he'd never figure out.) But the roof was _her_ place with Cain, where they shared stories, some funny, many confessions that should have been seen in the binding, privileged safety of a priest. As their relationship progressed, they both found themselves coming to the roof cleanse their souls with each other--sometimes _for_ each other--for there was no one else in the Realm who understood the pain, grief and loss it took to rebuild a life. Through those roof visits, Cain and DG's relationship turned from traveling companions to simply companions, to friends, to best friends, to husband and wife, to parents.

_He'd kissed her for the first time on the balcony._

_He'd proposed on the balcony--well, he'd tried to propose, before DG, too smart for her own good and able to easily read the discomfort in her best friend, had interrupted, very calmly putting her left hand over his. He'd sighed in relief, and slipped the diamond solitaire on her finger._

_They were married on that balcony, close friends and loved ones only. DG had asked Az to be her maid of honor, and Cain had shocked them all when he asked Ainsley to take Jeb's place beside him. Ashby was the flower girl, and Glitch helped walk her down the aisle like a pro, catching her before the curious one-year-old dumped the flowers and decided to use the basket as a hat._

_DG had introduced Ashby to the O.Z. the night of her birth from atop the tower. She'd pointed out Central City, the graveyard where her father had fought so bravely. She'd told her goddaughter all the stories of their world, from muglug to the Realm of the Unwanted--which, by Queen's command, she was forbidden to even go near until she was thirty. Cain had come quietly up behind the two girls and wrapped his arms around his wife's waist. Kissing the side of her neck, he said, "You look very peaceful, kiddo."_

_She'd nodded and smiled. "It's the oddest thing, Cain. I've always felt like I had one foot out the door, halfway to the county line before realizing I wanted to go the complete opposite way."_

"_You didn't have direction."_

"_Exactly. No place to call my own, running so much that terra firma was just a concept, an unrealistic dream."_

"_You sound like you might have changed your mind."_

_Nodding against his back, she said, "For the first time, I feel like there's nowhere to run to. I was always moving toward some_thing_. I didn't know I was running to some_one_. My dad always said home is where your heart is. I never thought it was true, but maybe it is. I never quite got the reference, until I met you. A home is where your heart is--that laughter, those fights, those moments when you stick up for your siblings even if you know they're dead wrong…that's family. That's what I want for her, Cain. To know love. To know home."_

_He'd kissed the top of her head. "She'll have a great teacher."_

_Six months later, she'd met him atop the tower, already spread out across the blanket, eyes closed as her head rested on a pillow. Cain joined her silently, the skin of his vest rubbing harshly against the cashmere wrap DG had across her shoulders. He lay down, his right cheek on the ground and facing her, when she took her hands in his. "Cain," she began, haltingly and unsure--Ozma only knew the last time she'd sounded like this. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Cain."_

"_Tin Man."_

_That stopped her from pulling her lip in and out of her teeth. "What?"_

_He smiled, blue eyes sparkling teasingly. "I thought we were playing word association."_

_She rolled her eyes, and took his hand. "Cain…I…that is, we…" Finally she just gave up and put his hand on her belly. The telltale swell had just popped. Cain's eyes were saucers as he looked at her, trying to comprehend the situation. _

_He didn't process. Instead, he fainted._

DG tugged on Cain's arm, leading him away from the memories and back into the castle. "There'll be many more days like that to come," she promised.

"You know," Cain said, pondering, "Ambrose and Az did say we could send the girls their way if we wanted a little peace and quiet." He gently pushed his wife against a marble pillar and started kissing from behind her ear, down her décolletage and up the underside of her chin, his body pressing tightly against hers. "And I'm sure Ainsley could use an extra shift at the hospital…"

"Getting rid of the children? Why, Mr. Cain, I do believe you're trying to seduce me."

"Is it working?"

DG smiled, kissing him hungrily, her hands at the sides of his throat and her tongue curling around the Tin Man's. "Yeah, I'd say it's working."

He smiled gleefully. "I'll make the arrangements."

"Good." They walked to the front door, and Cain held tightly to his wife's waist and wrist as she stepped into the carriage. She leaned out the open window to kiss him one last time. "I'll be home Friday."

"I'll be waiting."

They did not say _I love you_ out loud much, and when they did, it was in the privacy of chambers. But the words were heard in the way Wyatt threw three squealing young girls into the lake at Finaqua, and then chasing his wife and daughter-in-law around the banks before the two women ganged up on him and he dove in. The words were heard in the simplest things, like setting up a To-Do Chart for the children; just because they were in the lap of luxury did not mean their parents would not be steadfast in their plans to make the girls understand just what working for a buck--or a platinum, as the case may be--entailed.

The silent words were said across a kitchen table, where Mommy helped Emily with Letter People, and where Daddy helped Julia learn geography--both O.Z. and O.S. The words were heard in the hundreds of hand-painted pictures they'd saved and taped to the refrigerator--much to the chagrin of the cook--all with a family, all smiling.

During the search for the emerald, Lylo had told the Sorceress that DG was searching for those she loved. DG had certainly never realized just how wrong her interpretation of his words had been--she'd only wanted her parents.

But she knew now, through a conversation with Raw, that Lylo had been right all along. She'd found friendship love in a former Advisor, motherly love in the Queen, fatherly love in Ahamo, sisterly love in Az, multi-faceted--sometimes cruel, sometimes self-sacrificing--in Toto. She'd found forgiving love in Ainsley; she'd found new hope love in Ashby. She'd found _friend meant to be so much more _love in Cain; stubborn, unconditional, protective, unfaltering, look-to-the-future love.

In her daughters' eyes, she could see that when _they _looked at _her, _they found unbreakable love. That was the greatest gift she could ever give her children.

DG situated herself in the carriage, and Cain rested one foot on a spoke of the wheel. He pressed a gentle kiss to his wife's lips, and she cupped his cheek. "Just two more days," she promised as the footmen started to set off at a trot.

The words said aloud were not their own. They'd borrowed them from Jeb and Ainsley, who used them each time the Resistance leader left on another rescue mission.

"Be careful," the Tin Man ordered.

"Always," the Queen replied, cupping his chin.

He watched her ride away, and then sighed, looking back up to the wide windows on the front of the palace. Two little dark-haired girls tried to hide behind their draperies, which shook alongside the children's laughter. Cain shook his head and reentered the palace, taking the marble steps two by two.

"If two little princesses aren't dancing in a row right back to bed, I'll tell you the scary story about a poor boy named Grady Little who fell under the spell of the evil Empire and who left his pitcher in way too long, causing them to lose in Game 7 of the ALCS…"

FIN

* * *

Red Sox Reference Numero Uno: The Sox had not won a world series since 1918. During the 2004 season, GM Theo Epstein made some key trades (Garciaparra out, Curt Schilling, Keith Foulke, Dave Roberts, Orlando Cabrera and Doug Mienkiewicz in, in efforts to bolster their defense.) The Sox were the Wild Card that year, and swept Los Angeles in the ALDS. Problem was, in order to get to the World Series, they had to get through the hated New York Yankees in the ALCS. The Yanks were quickly up 3-0, and no team IN ANY LEAGUE had EVER come back to win a series if they were down 3-0. Well, the Sox did, eventually forcing a game seven and winning the American League Pennant. They eventually swept the St. Louis Cardinals to take the World Series title for the first time in eighty-six years. They would repeat as winners in 2007.

Red Sox Reference Numero Two-o: This is referring to the 2003 ALCS, where the Sox were mere outs away from advancing to the Series. Then-manager Grady Little kept an exhausted Pedro Martinez in the game. He ended up blowing the game, and the Yankees won in extras from a walk-off homer from Aaron F'in Boone.

The "King of the World" reference is, of course, from "Titanic". It's not mine.

The "King of the Lab" reference is from "Bones" and is for SpikesSweetie (Hey, look at that, he flipped over!), because it's fun to mix Deschanel sisters' fandoms. :) I don't own that, either.

"Joy to the World" (Jeremiah was a bullfrog) is not mine either. I just like the song.


	16. Metamorphosis

_Disclaimer: None of the characters or situations herein belong to me. This story is meant solely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended._

_Author's Notes: This story came from a prompt at LJ's TinmanFic community. It was: "__Jeb Cain keeps walking in on his father having "moments" with the Princess DG. He catches them holding hands more than once, her sleeping on his shoulder and his head on her head, them making cow eyes at each other and many other instances that make him confront his father about their relationship. His father's reaction is not what he expects."_

_You know my standard shout-outs are in here, because I need new references, like, two weeks ago. Hee. This is a little different writing style than I'm used to, but I hope it works and y'all like it anyway._

* * *

It started as a leaping embrace when she realized he was alive, one ignorant of her other kidnapped, injured friend. It continued with a white horse, a race against the sun to rescue her, and him holding onto her tightly, thankfully. It ended as a brief, one-armed hug when he realized his son was at the bottom of the tower, waiting for him, and her family was inches from them, waiting for her.

It started as brushing fingers, exchanging coffee and gentle smiles in the dim light of the palace kitchens. It continued with easy banter and heartfelt laughter, where she tried to one-up him and break that ex-Tin Man mask of his in two. It ended with a bright, playful grin from her--as if she knew something he did not about the inevitable--and a return smirk from him--outwardly neutral, even if he felt like he was thirteen annuals old and the prettiest girl in school had just noticed he existed.

It started as a hand on the small of her back, escorting her through the palace as he had eased her through the O.Z. It continued when their hands swung freely between them, fingertips catching and staying connected at the ends. It ended with her going up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek--hello, goodbye, happy Thursday, it didn't seem to matter. Not that he minded.

It started as him bringing her a tray long after the moons had risen when he suspected she hadn't eaten anything all day. It continued with her insisting he stay and share in half her sandwich. It ended with them resting comfortably on the window seat together, his hands gently massaging her feet as she talked about something called Fenway Park and a big green monster.

It started as her mother insisting their entire family--Tin Man, Royal Advisor, Viewer and Resistance Commander included--attend the reclamation celebrations the people wished to throw in honor of their return to the palace. It continued with both him and her negotiating with her mother that it was only necessary to do one state waltz, instead of the required twelve. It ended with them practicing in an abandoned marble hall, both staring at their bare feet and counting aloud as they tried not to break each other's toes.

It started as her begging one of his son's resistance fighters to make her a dress instead of the horrific creations her nightmares had imagined during their darkest hours. It continued with him escorting her to the forest each week for fittings, for she was an absolute disaster on horseback by herself, and had he not been there to catch her, she'd have fallen off the horse half a dozen times. It ended with sitting with his son and watching her laugh merrily, continually amazed and mesmerized with her beauty--not just physical, but her sparkling laugh, her quick wit, her gentle spirit.

It started with her being half an hour late to the ball. It continued with him knocking at the door, as her family was already mingling with the guests in the reception hall, and her letting him in, dressed but with a decidedly perplexed look on her face. It ended with her explaining that she couldn't remember whether or not she was supposed to step off with her left foot or her right, and wouldn't leave until she figured it out.

It started with him finally taking her about the waist. It continued with her again looking down at their feet as they worked through yet another problem together. It ended with him instead looking down at the most vivid, forgiving blue eyes he'd ever seen, and finally giving--_diving_--in, finding solace and redemption in a gentle kiss.

* * *

It started with noticing that the princess and his father had made unspoken communication into an art form. It continued when hands--one right, one left--seemed to disappear beneath the table during functions when the two were sitting next to each other. It ended--quickly and with two matching sets of blushes on pale cheeks--when Jeb cleared his throat and drew their attention back to the world around them.

It started with noticing that no matter how close or how far the princess and his father were from each other, their eyes seemed to know exactly where to look to find the other person; time, distance, space were all non-factors. It continued with realizing that along with reestablished eye contact came shy but genuinely loving smiles, the kind meant for distribution only in the privacy of one's chambers, not across a diplomatic function. It ended with watching his exhausted father lead an even more exhausted princess to the outside patio for long-overdue and deserved breathing room.

It started with watching his exhausted father and the even more exhausted princess as they sat very closely to each other on a stone bench. It continued with his father putting an arm around the princess, and with her curling into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. It persisted with his father kissing a crown of not precious gems but brunette curls. It ended with the realization that, to his father, there _was_ nothing more precious.

It started with his body shaking as it hadn't done for some time. It continued as confusion in the form of a thousand different thoughts, each more complex and befuddling than the last. It ended with him screaming at the stars surrounding his resistance camp that it _shouldn't _be fair, that he _shouldn't_ approve of this, but for some blasted, unknown reason, he just _did._

It started as a blonde medic shirking her endless doctoral duties in favor of being his wife, lacing a blanket around his shoulders and sinking onto the rocky ground next to him. It continued with his hand finding solace in her soft fingers--one of which held tightly to his mother's ring--and gentle words as she reminded him that they'd made it through the darkest part of night to the brightest rebirthing of day with love and faith as their only companions. It ended with him realizing that his father had been through just as much--if not more--heartbreak as he had.

It started with realizing that his father hadn't known happiness for eight annuals. It continued with a long, slow (more appropriately, prolonged and nervous) ride from the camp to the base of the tower, stomach in knots and breath coming in spurts in the early morning fog as he tried to practice what he'd say. It ended with him turning around three times before finally handing his horse off to the stable boy.

It started with interrupting breakfast and three frenzied, overlapping apologies and explanations--excuses, really. It continued with DG finally just laughing and waving Jeb in from the front hall, offering him a spot of breakfast. It ended with the princess leaving the two Cain boys alone, a lingering hand squeezing its support on Wyatt's shoulder.

It started with an uncomfortable silence. It continued with the clearing of a throat and the sipping of coffee. It ended with, "Father, I know about you and DG."

It started with his father nearly choking on his toast. It continued with him smacking the former Tin Man on the back and offering a glass of water. It ended with his father looking up and asking dumbly, "What?"

It started with him really, really wanting to laugh at his father's absurdly unbelievable denial. It continued with sitting down across from the man he'd lost so many annuals before and swallowing the brick of fear lodged in his throat. It ended with forgetting everything he'd planned to say, everything his wife had advised him to say, and just speaking from the heart.

It started with him half-expecting his father to interrupt him, saying his relationship with the princess was none of his son's business. It continued with Jeb talking about his mother, how happy the three of them had been as a family, how he'd never found--would never _find_--the sense of security, safety and love that had lived with their little family in the cabin by the small pond. It resumed with how broken he'd felt the day his father had been taken from him, and the inexplicable pain and hatred he'd felt since the death of his mother. It ended with the relief of finding out his father was alive, that he'd been given a second chance to have a real family again.

It started with him breaking through the stubborn Cain barriers and touching his father's hand briefly. It continued with him saying that all he'd wanted for a very, very long time was peace and happiness. It ended with him saying that if DG was the way for his father to find that peace, to hold on to that happiness, then godspeed to both of them.

* * *

It started with the thought that this had to be a surreal joke. It continued with the realization that this well-spoken, sensitive man was actually his son--no longer the little mud-covered boy who brought home snakes and frogs in his pockets and neglected to tell his mother before she washed his overalls. It ended with Cain bursting into uproarious, uncontrollable laughter, barely able to breathe.

* * *

It started with him feeling like he'd just made the biggest ass of himself by talking like one of those corner booth advice givers he'd seen in Central City a time or two. It continued with him barely hiding his embarrassment, angrily pushing off the stool by the kitchen table and heading for the door. It ended with his father's hand on his arm as he passed by, and the older man's quiet, "Thank you."

It started with his admission that he'd thought about what to say to Jeb about the DG situation. It continued with his admittance that he'd believed his son would be angry, disgusted, think him a cad for moving on with someone so much younger, and in such a short time span after the death of his wife--at least in Jeb's eyes. It ended with him saying he hadn't said anything because he couldn't find the words.

* * *

It started with Cain's admission that he didn't know how to talk to his own son.

It continued with Jeb's admission that he didn't know how to talk to his own father.

It ended with the agreement that perhaps they could try and talk to each other as friends.

* * *

It started with both Cain men admitting--embarrassed, admittedly, for they were _men_--that they wanted to get to know each other, to understand what had happened to make them who they'd become. It continued with both men rising from the breakfast table and awkwardly embracing, the final act of reclamation and reunification the O.Z. had to offer.

It ended with a brunette princess and a blonde medic giving each other high fives in the hallway outside the kitchen.

FIN


	17. Trip Around the Sun

_Author's Notes: The characters herein (save for Ash, Ains, Emmy and Jules) are not mine. This story is meant solely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended._

_This is part of the RBFOD 'verse. Yes, again. It does reference events in "Terra Firma" and "Family", both of which can be found posted as part of the "Bound" series, but I think you can understand this piece just fine without reading the previous stories. _

_The title and inspiration for this comes from the song "Trip Around the Sun", written by Sharon Vaughn, Al Anderson and Stephen Bruton. Check out the Jimmy Buffett/Martina McBride version of the song. Just beautiful._

_Thank you to SpikesSweetie and Lattelady for always being there with help, corrections and suggestions for whatever crazy bunnies Charlie comes up with when he's supposed to be working on something else. What would I do without you girls? I shudder to think. :)_

_And, as always, to the phenomenal and hilarious Alamo Girl, who makes her nephews leap off the couch in absolute terror when I start laughing hysterically at her running commentary…who knew you'd have a Goonies moment with this? "Hey, you GUYS!" HA. Love you._

* * *

It was a schedule one could set a watch by, as frequent and predictable as the tides or the rising of the celestial Ozian bodies. Each month, she'd go to the stables and pet her favorite white-and-brown spotted horse as her mother prepared to ride out. Her mother would kiss her on the forehead, tell her not to cause too much trouble, and say she'd be back soon. She never spoke of what she said when she was at the little cabin by the white elm, and Ashby never asked, for, in spite of her age, she knew it was special, intimate time shared and understood only by a husband and a wife.

She herself had never met her father, but she'd been introduced to him on many occasions.

The first time she visited her father's grave, she was a baby of barely a month old who slept soundly for the entirety of the visit, snuggled securely against her mother's chest. Her mother knelt before the polished grey stone and told him of his daughter's birth, how Ashby had come two weeks early and she'd had to waddle through the maze at Finaqua to find the royal family--celebrating Princess Azkadellia's birthday in the gazebo--to tell them it was time.

The second time she visited her father's grave, she was a baby of six months old who was more interested in chewing on the sleeves of the soft purple cardigan the former Queen had knitted for her. When her mother kissed her fingertips and pressed them against her father's headstone, Ashby had tried to catch the sunlight glinting off her mother's wedding ring, chubby fists opening and closing as she chased the dancing rays.

The third time she visited her father's grave, she and her mother had been accompanied by her godmother and grandfather. She'd just celebrated her first birthday by covering herself in nothing but chocolate cake, white icing and a delighted grin. She and her mother had dipped their toes in the little pond while her grandfather and Aunt DG talked to her father, hoping he'd give his blessing on their wedding day.

By the time she was four annuals old, she'd started to lose count as to how many times she and her mother had traveled to the little cabin by the white elm. But it was about that time she started doing more of the talking, excitedly telling her father that she had a brand new cousin to play with and that she'd decided she wanted to be a Tin Man just like her grandfather when she grew up. She introduced her father to Julia before she started chasing ladybugs and robins through the tall, itchy grasses with a two-year-old princess trying to keep up with her.

When she was seven annuals old, she'd gone to the gravesite with apprehension for the first time, after one of the boys in her class had teased her about not having a father. She'd asked a thousand questions of Jeb, tilting her head back toward the sky and waiting for an answer. She'd cried most of the way back home when none came.

When she was nine annuals old, she and her mother visited him a few days after she'd gotten in trouble for playing in the attics with Jules and Emmy. She'd sat on the pier with her arms folded, quite furious with her mother for punishing her when the other girls had gotten off comparatively scot-free. Her mother had paced in front of the cabin, hands on her hips, wondering aloud about the stubborn Cain streak and what in Ozma's name she was supposed to do with this daughter of his.

Her mother had never said, _just wait until your father gets home_. She'd never been able to say _go ask your father_. She'd never really gotten to be a wife, just as Ashby had never gotten to be a daddy's girl.

She knew it was painful for her mother to talk about her father, and they mostly rode in silence from the palace to the cabin and back. She'd always wanted to ask her mother questions, living up to the chatterbox nickname her godmother had given her, but she always noticed her strong mother falter beneath the weight of missing her husband so desperately, and couldn't bring herself to cause her more pain.

She was ten annuals old the first time she and grandfather traveled to the little cabin by themselves. The children in her class were going on a camping trip with their fathers, and though both her mother and Aunt DG had offered to accompany her (the latter tapping her foot impatiently and informing Ashby that she was the _Queen_, for heaven's sake, and if _she_ couldn't go camping, then who in the damn Realm could?), she'd still felt like something wasn't right. She'd shaken her head and thanked them for offering to go, but lied and said she'd rather spend the time at Finaqua.

Her grandfather came to her room early the next morning, two packs and bedrolls on his shoulder, and they'd ridden out to her father's former home. He'd told her all about her father--where he took his first steps, what his first word was ("Mine!"), how he loved to help his father strip and shape wood from the grove of trees on the land, making horses and cowboys to defend the kitchen table from advancing guild fighters.

She was eleven annuals old when she came to the cabin clutching an invitation from one of Central City's most elite private schools. She couldn't find a word to fully convey the depths of her confusion--she liked her small public school, liked her teachers, liked her friends. She wasn't sure if she wanted to move, even if the new school offered the types of programs she was most interested in. She'd had to admit that her wish to become a Tin Man had changed, and hoped her father wouldn't be disappointed in her. She'd questioned whether or not the invitation had come simply because of her connection to the royal family, or if she'd actually earned the spot herself. She'd again tilted her head back, and this time, the wind blew mightily, causing her to lose hold of the paper. It had scampered halfway back to Central City before she caught up with it, and she'd believed it to be a sign that her father was telling her she'd better get back there and start studying.

She was almost thirteen annuals old the first time she rode out to the cabin by herself. She'd had a huge fight with her mother, and had sunk into the mud in front of her father's gravestone, demanding to know why, of all the women in the world, he had to choose _her_. She was so _stubborn_ and didn't _listen_. She didn't _understand_. _She'd_ never been a thirteen-annual-old girl before; how was she supposed to know how her daughter felt?

Her entire family came looking for her, but she refused to speak to any of them, save for her Aunt Az. The older woman had sat right in the puddles the spring rain was dotting around the gravestone and put her arm around her niece, speaking quietly and saying that she _did_ know how Ashby felt--she didn't really remember having a father, either. But she'd also said that there were a lot of kids who didn't have fathers or families who loved them. They might have been a little unique, but Ashby had people who loved her endlessly, even when she disappeared and gave them all heart attacks in the process.

She was fourteen annuals old the first time she admitted to her father that there was a boy in one of her classes that she was thinking of asking to accompany her to the annual reclamation celebration ball. She'd asked for his guidance--and a little help in not falling ass over teakettle on the hem of her dress while they danced. She'd practiced the dance steps her Uncle Ambrose had showed her, one foot in front of the other in the tall, itchy grasses in front of the cabin, arms extended as though her father were there leading her.

She was fifteen annuals old the first time DG let her drive to the cabin. They'd finally repaved the old brick route, and her aunt had taught her to drive--with a few white knuckles and a lot of well placed curses on the part of both teacher and pupil--because her mother couldn't bear to be in the passenger seat with her child behind the wheel. DG and Ashby had sneakily pushed the car out of the palace garage before daybreak, because they both knew Ainsley and Cain would have them strung up by their toes for going out on the road without a license or half the Royal Guard for protection.

She was sixteen annuals old when she'd returned and told her father that she'd been accepted into the pre-med program at school. She laughed when she told him of how her mother had cried, how Ambrose had glitched in his excitement, how Emmy owed Jules ten platinums, how her grandfather told them they had no right to place bets, how DG had wondered where on Earth her daughters had gotten ten platinums in the first place and why she hadn't been let in on the wager.

She was a week past her seventeenth birthday when that boy from the ball broke up with her. She'd folded her knees to her chest and cried with her hand resting against her father's name, wishing he was there to do what Emmy had suggested and beat the living mobat shit out of the boy for breaking her heart. She'd been unable to breathe as she cried, and for the first time, she'd realized just how much her mother must have hurt when he was not there that first morning to see the suns rising, how much it must have killed her to go to sleep alone at night. Emmy and Jules had eventually ridden to sit with her, and the three girls had rested beneath both a blanket of grey wool and stars until the new day--new hope that it would get better--dawned.

She was eighteen and a half annuals old when her mother fell quite ill. Though Ainsley's fellow doctors--and Ashby's own ongoing training--told her that her mother would be just fine, she'd rushed to her father's side, begging him and her grandmother to enlist the angels in protecting them from any more heartbreak. That was the first visit to the little cabin by the white elm when she'd consciously realized she'd be back there again one day without her mother, either at her side or waiting for her back at the palace.

She'd been numb all the way back to Central City, and had eschewed dinner in favor of a restless slumber wherein she dreamed she was back in the tall, itchy grasses, this time not chasing butterflies or fireflies, but her mother as Ainsley left her behind. Ashby had cried out, both in her dream and in reality, and Ainsley had come to her side, gathering her much-taller daughter in a comforting embrace and rocking her like she had so many annuals before. Her mother had pressed a kiss to her hair and assured her that she'd always be there--just like Jeb was--and that she looked forward to being reunited with her husband, finally able to once again rest side by side and watch the suns rise together, as they had done so long ago.

She was nineteen annuals old the first time she saw her father, standing behind her mother at her graduation ceremony. She'd slipped from the party DG had insisted on throwing for her, her borrowed flip-flops vibrating against the ridged floorboard of the old Longcoat vehicle the Queen had taken to fixing as she drove frantically to the cabin, somehow believing her father would be standing there, waiting for her.

Instead, she saw her mother kneeling in front of the graves, marveling to him at how their little girl had turned out. Ashby had started to tear up when her mother thanked her father for being there for both of them through the annuals, guiding them with a gentle but loving hand, steadfast in protecting and reminding them that they could do anything, say anything, _be_ anything. Ashby had caught something to the edge of her mother's words, as though she'd said them before, but she'd said nothing as she approached the graves, putting an arm around her mother's shoulder as she showed her father her diploma.

She was twenty-one annuals old when she treated a broken ankle in the hospital emergency room, and got asked out in the process.

She was twenty-three annuals old when the man belonging to that broken ankle proposed.

She was twenty-three annuals, four months and twenty-nine days old when she introduced her fiancé to her father for the first time.

She continued to visit her father long after she became a doctor, a wife, a mother. It became her own routine, one she could set her watch by. Her husband never asked her what she said at the little cabin by the white elm, for he knew it was special, intimate time shared and understood only by a father and a daughter.

FIN


	18. Fine Line

_Disclaimer: You know the drill. They're not mine. Pity, that._

_Thank you to Alamo Girl for the prompt and beta, and also to SpikesSweetie for the constant love and encouragement. You girls rock. _

_This piece is darker than the flangsty pieces of late. I'd liken it more to "No Humans Allowed" than anything I've updated with recently. Just a warning. This is also not part of the RBFOD 'verse._

_Enough chatter. Time for angst! :)_

* * *

Her steps echoed loudly in the cavernous stone hallway, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust from the brightness of the daylight to the minimalist torchlight of the Central City Jail. Her guards marched in formation surrounding her, their boots stepping in metered time.

The jailer bowed to her as they approached, and her lead bodyguard held the door to the observation room open. She passed through with only a slight nod of her head in acknowledgement, as her thoughts were far from the dungeon in which she stepped.

She expected him to be pacing the small room; she knew he hated enclosed spaces almost as much as she did. Both of them were filled with a constant nervous energy, causing their need to move to rank just below their need to breathe. She expected to see him walk in a straight line, back and forth, from one corner to the other, turning on his heel in an almost military style. His duster would flutter behind him, trying to catch up to its owner's movements.

As always, he surprised her.

He was sitting at the scratched metal table, fedora in the middle, hands laced together as though he were waiting for dinner to be served. His knuckles were bloody, and he had the beginnings of a black eye, but otherwise seemed identical to the man who she'd watched ride away from her countless months ago.

His voice echoed in her head at the most inopportune times. It didn't even have the decency to wait until she was alone, or in the solitude of her bedroom. She heard his frustrated sigh in the middle of negotiations with bordering countries; she felt his breath on her neck when helping smaller communities in their efforts to rebuild after the war. She felt the ghost of his touch helping her in and out of the royal carriage, and at first, leaned against air, hoping against hope that he'd be there.

But he never was.

She placed her hands against the edge beneath the observation window, and though outwardly it appeared she was in full control of her emotions, that small sliver of wood was barely keeping her upright. She could not fathom seeing him again, let alone seeing him like this.

The jailer cleared his throat and attempted to hand her a file folder. She waved him away with barely a twitch of her hand, and he stepped back, leaving her once again to her thoughts.

The men stood in a semi-circle around her, as though they believed they could protect her from the man sitting in the other room. Little did they know he'd already broken not only her heart, but her spirit as well.

Little did they know he'd broken down walls that couldn't be rebuilt, smashed defenses that had no reinforcements. They couldn't protect her from that man - he'd already taken too much.

She'd offered him her world, and he turned his back on her.

She found herself changing her mind the longer he watched her—he may have outwardly matched the Wyatt Cain of a lifetime ago, but his actions were certainly not those of the man she'd been stupid enough to fall in love with.

She deserved answers. She'd treat him like any other prisoner, and try to forget the way his eyes were a lie detector when pointed at her. She'd ignore the way her stomach tightened when she remembered how he touched her, those innocuous, fleeting moments when he let her see that he cared for her, more than a loyal subject caring for his queen. She'd forget his final look, the way his eyes blazed into hers, the way she knew he wanted to say something other than, "Take care of yourself, kiddo."

She straightened her back and faced the jailer. "I want to see him."

The jailer looked as though he might argue, but after a perfected quirk of her brow, he relented. He held the door for her, and as she passed, she caught a glimpse of the angry red letters stamped on the file folder.

Cain, Wyatt. Charge: Murder in the First Degree.

She waved off her guards and opened the door herself. The eyes she'd tried her damndest to forget immediately found hers, and locked on her face.

Her lead bodyguard followed her in, and Cain's gaze shifted from her to the burly man as he pulled out the chair for her. The guard hovered right behind her, his right hand on his service pistol. For once, she was thankful for his proximity, and his promise to keep her safe, even—and especially—from those who'd sworn to protect her, once upon a time.

Cain's eyes did not move from her guard, and he said nothing. She sat primly in the chair and matched his stance, lacing her hands together and resting them on the dingy table.

The silence was tense, interminable. Finally, she leaned back in her chair, disregarding the dirt that would inevitably catch on the purple silk of her long jacket. "What happened?"

He refused to break the stalemate, still looking at the guard. She spared a glance behind her and saw that the two men were barely blinking as they sized each other up. Finally, Cain turned his laser-like gaze on her.

"I wasn't expecting company, Princess." Though his words were meant to be cutting, there was an element of hurt tinting his voice, minor enough that her guard did not notice, but obvious enough to her that she had to control a wince.

"Show some respect to Her Royal Highness," her guard said, seething.

She put up a hand to stop his further berating, and Cain smirked. "Her Royal Highness. I miss the dungarees, kid."

_So do I_, she thought, but did not answer him. She merely posed her initial question again, her tone hardening. "What happened, Mr. Cain?"

His brows rose at the formality with which she addressed him. "I've got nothing to say, Your _Highness_."

Her façade broke slightly, cracking just enough that she felt the warmth she associated with him start to seep through. "Don't talk to me as your Queen. Talk to me as your friend."

His mouth twitched. "I'll talk to you in private."

"You'll talk to me as we are," she replied, "or we will not talk at all."

"You're the one who came here, kid. I didn't ask you to." He watched her for a long moment, and then, after a flicker to her guard, his eyes shifted, and he became unreadable. "You're not scared of me, are you?"

"My feelings toward you are not at issue," she said, idly wishing her sister or mother were with her so they could see just how well the diplomacy lessons had ingrained themselves within her.

"Answer me, DG." His tone was softer now, and his bloodied hands seemed to want to reach out and touch hers.

"You will address Her Majesty appropriately," her guard ordered again, and she turned to face the burly man fully.

"Rhys," she ordered quietly, "it's all right."

Rhys looked down at her, then over at Cain. After a moment, he nodded and took a half-step backwards. She turned to face Cain again, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Please tell me what happened."

He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing to tell."

"That's not what the warden tells me."

"Why did you come here?"

"Are you going to answer my questions with questions?"

Two very similar, and yet distinctly different, sets of blue eyes hesitated with each other, until she blinked, balking. Acquiescing, she said quietly, "I came here because I wanted to see you."

He chuckled at that, running a finger along the faded leather of his fedora. "Hell of a time for a visit."

She tamped down the annoyance and expelled a slow, deep breath. "This is the first time in a long time that I knew where to find you."

"Better that way, Princess."

"Obviously not." She leaned forward, and the edges of her fingers brushed against his callous hands. He pulled them back, and she watched him curiously. "Cain. Talk to me."

"Nothing to say," he repeated, his voice low and warning.

"Why did you do it?"

He stared at her openly, reading her face, gauging her reaction. She could see the wheels turning inside his head as he fought to fabricate a lie that would at least give her respite. She knew he would find none, especially of his own making.

"There was a threat," he finally replied. "I took care of it."

She shuddered outwardly at his cool, callous disregard. The last twinge of hope that this was all some huge mistake, a cosmic joke, or could be easily explained slipped between the cracks in the stone floor and disappeared before she could reach down to grasp at them. "It's not your job to 'take care of the problem'."

"It's my job to keep you safe."

She shook her head. "You gave up that job a long time ago."

He was silent for a long moment, and his eyes went to Rhys. When he spoke, he did not look her in the eye. "Officially, maybe. But I'll always look out for you, kiddo."

"You're not a killer, Cain."

He smirked mirthlessly. "Connor Jacoby might disagree with you on that one."

She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs. Her foot brushed against his knee, but he did not pull away this time. "Tell me what happened."

"Everything's in the report. I already confessed."

She slammed her palm on the table and rose quickly from the chair, sending it screeching along the floor to Rhys' feet. "God damn it, Cain, I did not come all this way for you to play games with me."

When she looked down at him again, the stoic walls had crumbled somewhat, and she pushed her way in. "I just need to understand, Cain. Please."

"I promised I'd protect you. And I did."

"You killed a man in cold blood."

He blanched at the words, but only enough that someone who knew him well—like she did, one last chance and a lifetime ago—would be able to see it. "He was part of the opposition, kiddo. He was going to plant someone in the palace, and you'd be vulnerable. I couldn't let that happen."

"So you killed him?" She leaned toward him, bracing herself on the palms of her hands. "Cain, there are laws, rules, regulations. _You_ taught me that. You should have told me. The Guard would have launched an investigation—"

"It could have been too late. I couldn't take that chance."

DG rubbed at her forehead wearily, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "You didn't kill Zero when you had the chance. Why kill Jacoby?"

Now Cain stood, and began the pacing she'd expected. "I don't want to talk about this, DG."

"I know you don't. But see this from my perspective, Cain. I get notice that one of the heroes of the O.Z., someone I consider a good friend, has tracked and killed a man. He marches into Central City Jail and confesses, but won't speak as to motive. I'm in the dark here."

He stopped pacing and leaned across the table, so close to her that their noses nearly touched. "You're safer there, Princess. Drop it."

"No." She barely breathed, and did not flinch. "Why did you kill him?"

"Because he was a threat to you."

"That's not good enough."

"It'll have to be. That's all there is to it."

She finally blinked and leaned her head back. "You killed him because he might hurt me?"

Cain's teeth were clenched. "Yes."

She couldn't help the small smattering of laughter that escaped her chapped lips, broken from worried biting. "Then you might as well kill half the O.Z. I'm not so popular these days."

The indescribable look crossed his features again, and he sat back down in the chair. "I don't know what you want me to say, DG. There's no deeper reasoning behind it, no complex explanation. I killed him to protect you. And I'd do it again."

He was methodical, detached in his emphasis. Finally, the question that she'd wanted to ask for so long fell from her mouth. "Why do you care?"

He seemed surprised at that, but quickly masked the sentiment behind an icy exterior. "What kind of question is that?"

"You left, Cain. A long time ago. It's not your job to care anymore."

"You think just because I left means I don't care?" He shook his head with a rueful chuckle. "I left _because_ I care, DG."

She sat down in her own chair, wincing at the scraping of metal on stone. The sound, along with his words, sent a shiver through her body. "I don't understand."

"Look," he said, his tone half pleading, "I was in the Realm of the Unwanted when I heard Jacoby and a few other guys planning to infiltrate the castle. I cut off the head of the monster. I admit it. Can't we just leave it at that?"

"No."

"Damn it, DG, knock it off."

She did not waver. "No. I won't. If you did this in my name, I deserve a full explanation. No beating around the bush, no double entendres, no questions within questions. Just give it to me straight."

He sighed and rubbed his temples as though trying to stop the onslaught of a migraine. To Rhys he said, "Is she always this pushy?"

The guard did not answer.

Cain tilted his head back in thought before speaking again. "I don't want a trial. I don't want a jury or a judge. I just want to admit what I did and serve the time I should."

"What are you so afraid of admitting?" Her eyes were almost as dark as her mother's in her anguish.

"I've admitted everything I need to." The warning was back, not subtle in the least.

"What about admitting the things you _want_ to?"

His eyes raked over her again, and she uncomfortably felt the heat and tried not to squirm beneath his scrutiny. "Why are you so intent on pushing this?"

"Because I deserve an explanation."

"I gave you one. Now drop it."

His cadence and look reminded her of the first time she'd laid eyes on him; disheveled, angry, cold and calculating. She searched his eyes, his face for any sign of the man she'd relied on to rebuild her life. He was gone, just as her innocence was.

"Cain…"

He slapped a hand on the table and she jumped. Rhys was at her side instantly, his holster unfastened. "Leave it alone," Cain warned lowly.

She pushed the chair back from the table and stood, Rhys preparing to guide her out of the room. She heard Cain sigh and when she checked his reflection in the observation mirror, she saw the hurt on his face, and the way his head dipped ever so slightly toward his chest. She put a hand on Rhys' arm. "Could you give us a moment alone, please?"

The guard watched Cain warily. "With all due respect, Your Highness, I don't think that's such a good idea."

"You may stand outside the door. I will call you if I need assistance."

The guard looked down at her hands as they shook slightly, and bent his head so only she'd hear him. "You don't have to do this, Your Highness."

"Yes, I do, Rhys. Thank you." She mustered some finality in her tone, and he nodded, stepping back. "I'll be right outside if you need me, Highness."

She shut the door behind him and walked to the observation mirror, leaning against the dingy, cracked glass. She crossed her arms and watched Cain closely. "Let's work through what we know," she began, and he leaned back interestedly, with that damned half-smirk on his face. This time, however, she refused to let it be her undoing. "You killed a man. In cold blood. And you've admitted it was premeditated."

The grin faded instantaneously. "Yes."

She shook her head. "I never thought you capable."

His eyes flashed in warning. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

"That's what scares me."

His eyes widened slightly. "I scare you?"

"You do now."

Something drained from him, and what was left of her heart broke when she saw it leave his body. He looked at his hands. "I'm sorry," he said finally, and she saw a glimpse of the great defender she'd once relied so heavily on. "That wasn't my intention."

"You just wanted to protect me."

His eyes were open and honest when he replied. "It used to be that was all I was good at."

"And you'd kill again to do it."

There was no hesitation when he answered. "Yes."

"I don't want that for you. I don't want you to carry that burden."

"Don't you get it, kiddo? There _is_ no burden. I did what was right and just. Now it's time to accept the consequences and move on with life."

"So you have no remorse?" She felt the tears threaten and turned halfway, showing only her profile as she fought to keep control. "What happened to you, Cain?"

"You did."

She whirled around, tears burning as they fell. "Don't you dare blame this on me."

"You wanted the truth, DG. I'm just doing what you asked."

"I never asked you to be a killer. In fact, I distinctly remember telling you you _weren't_ a killer."

"Things change."

"So do people, apparently." She shook her head, tears dripping from her long eyelashes and staining the sleeves of her robe.

To her surprise, Cain shook his head. "I didn't change, DG. I swore I'd protect you, and I did. You may not understand it, but everything I've done, I've done for you. And I'll continue to do it."

She licked her lips, unsure how to respond. "I hope you're not expecting a thank you card."

"You're alive. That's thanks enough."

"But now you're in here, probably for the rest of your life. How do you expect to protect me from behind bars?"

"I protected you from across the realm, and when you didn't even realize it. I'll find a way."

Finally, she turned and put her hand on the doorknob. "I know you think what you did was right, Cain. But you need to know something." She faced him fully, her wise eyes sorrowful. "Taking one life to spare another—that's not love. That's recklessness. And now, you're in here, and lost to me. That hurts more than you could ever understand."

She pulled the door open, and Rhys escorted her back into the cold sunlight. This time, it was Cain who watched her ride away. This time, it was DG who knew she was doing the right thing.

FIN


	19. Perfect Girl

_Author's Notes: Still not mine. Damn._

_This piece is a prequel to "Shades of Grey", which is posted as chapter five in this series. It was encouraged by Lattelady, who suggested I play with "Shades" when I was suffering from a Great Wall of China size writer's block, and Meredith Paris, who wanted a piece where Az confronts her parents. Thank you both for cheering me on and helping me find my angsty voice again._

_Thank you also to Bee and Alamo Girl for the beta and unending support. I don't know what I'd do without you girls._

_This piece is more in the vein of "Fine Line" and "No Humans Allowed", so an angst warning applies here._

* * *

_Am I faithful, am I strong, am I good enough to belong_

_In your reverie a perfect girl_

_Your vision of romance is cruel and all along I played the fool_

_All your expectations bury me_

_--Perfect Girl, Sarah McLachlan_

_

* * *

_The sunlight caught the serrated edges of the broken window, refracting the light and casting a multitude of rainbows across the marble floor of the room.

The rainbows had once represented survival, rebirth. They'd lit a long-forgotten path of forgiveness and goodness, blinding in their colorful salvation and a reminder that despite how darkness had once ruled the O.Z. with an iron fist, even the firmest grip had to loosen eventually. Light would be restored**.**

But now the rainbows were tainted, just like the rest of her homeland was--by her own hand. They were not cast in celebration or hope, but in anger, frustration.

In hatred. In rage.

In the eternal instant it took for Azkadellia to make the window explode, sending the panes crashing to the floor, the eldest princess finally felt at peace.

She knew this side of her, knew this fury as well as she knew her own name. She welcomed the intensity, thrived in knowing this true definition of herself--powerful, intelligent, unrelenting.

She was no longer the little girl lost in the hush of an awkward dinner with her parents. She was not the expected grateful, dutiful daughter and sister, the perfect princess who'd been so tragically locked away, a prisoner of her own mind. She was finally rescued by a heroic savior--a _Slipper_ no less, someone who'd survived an entire _week_ not knowing anything or anyone (how amazing!)-- who'd never flinched in the face of danger. She was not a poor, pitiful victim of happenstance who was delicate, breakable, and vulnerable in the aftermath of the Witch's possession. She was not the weak, unfortunate girl who would probably be a leper the rest of her life, forced to the farthest part of the realm because the people would refuse her entrance to Central City, and her family would want to save her the heartache of going to Finaqua or the Northern Palace, given all the horrific memories of what she'd done associated with the locations. It would be easier on her to go away, simply because it would be easier on everyone else if she did.

When Azkadellia summoned the shattered fragments and began levitating them in mid-air, she was a woman who remembered what it was like to have meaning, relevancy, direction. She was a woman who--sometimes disgusted with herself for believing it, but still brutally honest the way her mother could not be--missed being the Sorceress, with her master plans and the constant companionship of both Witch and Longcoat.

When she drew the shards into a tight ball, she was the woman who was still being lied to by her mother, with the elder woman saying there was nothing she could have done in the aftermath of the cave, that they were all pawns in the Witch's chess game. She was the woman who was ignored once again in favor of DG and her angelic status, both to their parents and to the "Saviors of the Realm", all of whom were now part of the family Azkadellia had not officially been introduced, let alone acclimated, to.

As she made a fist and prepared to attack, she was the woman who knew the _truth_. She was the woman who knew that, in spite of all accounts to the contrary, had saved _herself_ the night of the Eclipse. She was the woman who'd known that if she didn't step out of the beam, she'd end up cowering and disintegrating beneath it, akin to a magnifying glass smoldering a blade of grass in the summer sunshine. She was the woman who knew that her family had deigned to help her only when their lives were in the utmost jeopardy, not because of any overriding concern for her personal safety. She was the woman who had been all but silent since the Eclipse, not because of any guilt on her part--though there was obviously some--but because her family acted as though nothing had happened, that time and distance and a little black magic hadn't loosened love's protective hold on them. They were the poster children for _happily ever after_, and they didn't want that to be sullied by the actualities of the torture they'd inflicted on her so long ago; they didn't want to hear about the annuals when_ they_ were the ones locked away, shielded from the daily horrors of the life they'd created for her.

She was the woman who hated the pity and flinches on everyone's faces when she walked in a room. She was the woman who hated being alone, with no purpose other than to "rest" after her ordeal, forced to take orders from people who couldn't ever fathom just what that "ordeal" was, because they were too wrapped up in their own lives to give a shit about hers.

She was a woman who was mad as hell and was sick and tired of being quiet about it.

As Azkadellia finally forced the shards across the room, thrusting them furiously toward her family, almost eager to inflict pain on them the way they'd done it to her, she became aware that she was screaming at the top of her lungs, demanding answers to questions long unasked.

"Why didn't you tell us about the cave? If you'd told us, we could have stayed away.

"Why was I always the one to get in trouble for DG's 'adventures'? If you had just punished her--like any decent parent would have--she wouldn't have wandered off to the woods in the first place.

"Why didn't you notice something was terribly, terribly wrong with me? I had tattoos appear out of the blue, for Ozma's sake.

"Why did you choose to save her over me? Was I not that important to you?

"Didn't you give a damn? I was your _daughter_."

Was. The verb tense wasn't lost on her. She was no longer part of any family, be it Longcoats or the Gales. She didn't have supporters or friends who refused to leave her side. She didn't have command of anything anymore, except for the scalding wrath exploding from her fingers.

She no longer had a purpose or unalienable truths. She no longer had excuses portraying themselves as reasons why. She no longer had innocence or ignorance.

She no longer had absolution or patience; for herself, for DG, for Ahamo, for Lavender.

Even in her most desperate hours with the Witch, she'd had something to hold on to. Now she had nothing. What the Witch hadn't taken, her family had. She was stripped bare, unprotected by those who had sworn to do nothing but.

The chunks of window pane sliced through the air, thrown so roughly that she could hear the whizzing sound over the din of her cries and the wind whistling through the broken windows.

She continued in her desperate, furious rage, and the glass from a second window exploded outward, showering more tiny, sharp pieces down on the occupants of the library.

"Why haven't you truly, honestly asked me if I needed anything? Why haven't you given a shit and tried to find out about who I am--not who I was fifteen annuals ago? Why haven't you cared that I'm too scared to go to sleep at night because I don't know if the people you've surrounded us with are telling you one thing but planning my death anyway? Why have you accepted DG's friends as part of the family and forgot to include me in the rebuilding?

"Why have you been pretending everything is back to normal when 'normal' doesn't even exist in the O.Z. anymore?"

The slices of glass were unrelenting weapons now, and she heaved them forward as her anger acted as gasoline on flame--the flame that had started as a spark when she was a little girl, given responsibilities far beyond her years; the flame that had grown since the cave, feeding on logs built from confusion, abandonment. Hurt. Betrayal. Rejection.

"Why do you allow others to blame me when you're the ones who chose one to save one daughter over the other, over your so-called loyal subjects? It should be your heads they're calling for, not mine. It should be your face they identify with death and destruction. You should be the ones explaining what truly happened with the Witch--that DG was the one that freed her, and that you, Mother, the most powerful being in the O.Z., could have exorcised the Witch at any time, but chose not to. You're the ones who hid from me, who never tried once to fix the situation you created. You never tried to help me. You ran off to the Realm of the Underground, you ran off to the Other Side. Mother, you sat back all through my adolescence and let the Witch get stronger. Even without your pure magic, you could have done something. Anything. Hell, you could have entombed me back in that cave, make sure I didn't harm anyone. You knew what was in me.

"Didn't you? Or did you just not care?"

As the spears launched past her family, embedding themselves in the velvet curtains or dropping to rest along the baseboards, the flame built into an inferno. She advanced on her family, who were cowering and huddling before her, on their knees but not begging forgiveness as they should have been.

"You just didn't give a damn, did you? I wasn't important. I wasn't worth the time or the energy.

"You think I got what I deserved."

They said nothing to dispute her final statement.

"Screw you. Screw all of you. You're heartless. _You're_ the murderers. You killed me fifteen annuals ago and never lost a night of sleep over it.

"You didn't care about me at all."

As the Witch had done at the gazebo in Finaqua, Azkadellia called for the spears again and pulled them to her. She assaulted her family again, throwing the pieces down with as much force as she could muster. She was surprised to note her vision becoming blurry and her hand starting to shake.

The shards dropped to the floor, skittering and breaking like cracks on the face of a frozen lake. Az closed her eyes and waited to fall in. She welcomed the cold darkness--it was where she'd belonged for so long. This obviously wasn't home, and she'd never feel that it was, no matter how long she lived.

She became aware of movement in front of her, and opened her eyes. Cain was sprawled on top of DG, and the youngest princess was fighting him, trying to rotate her oddly-bent arm from where it sat awkwardly near her head. Cain's back and neck had taken much of Az's wrath, and she could see stripes of red, white and blue--from his shirt and the blood--through the long and revealing gashes in his coat.

Ahamo and Lavender were huddled behind a pillar next to the second window. The Queen was covering her head and Ahamo was trying in vain to protect them with cut, bleeding hands.

The endless silence that had plagued them when all four were together had faithfully followed from the dining room into the library. Az watched, chest heaving and eyes black from angry exertion, as the two men brought their women to their feet.

The two men checked their charges over first before seemingly remembering Az was there. The four finally exchanged a look, one easily interpreted to mean they believed she could use some intervention as well. But no one took a step forward. No one reached out a hand. No one said a word.

Az turned from the reading area and quickly found a trash can to vomit in.

When she turned around, she saw outright, panicked terror on her mother's face, almost identical to the look she'd had when she saw the Sorceress with the emerald on the night of the eclipse. She saw concern on her father's face--mostly for DG and his wife, Az noted, watching Ahamo's eyes dart between her mother and sister. Cain was holding one arm tightly around DG's waist, and his other hand was on the holster of his gun.

"Go ahead and shoot me, Mr. Cain. I'm dead anyway."

FIN

* * *


	20. Fragments

_Author's Notes: Still not mine. Sadness abounds._

_Meredith Paris asked for a Jeb/Az angsty fic a long, long time ago. I'm nothing if not really late. Oh, well. At any rate, I love my Statler **THIS** much._

_Thank you to Bee and Alamo Girl for the squees and the logistical minded beta. Y'all rock. A lot._

_The title of this piece, along with the "echoes and anger of angels" line, were inspired by Vertical Horizon ("Fragments" and "Everything You Want"). Credit where it's due._

* * *

**Fragments**

There was no rationale, no reason, no explanation as to why it had happened. Everything faded into blurred fragments, into easily ignored actuality, and they liked it that way.

There was no self-control, no clarity, no emotion other than the visceral desire to find the blinding moment of release and the corresponding ability to forget, letting the world--ignored expectations, bitter history, overwhelming failure, bloodied hands and dirtied psyches--fall completely away into the safety of silence.

There were no words, no declarations, no pondering as to how they'd ended up in this place; in each other's company, in her room, in her bed. They couldn't be bothered with anything beyond immediate ignorance and escape, of seeking and falling into the quiet, comforting abyss. They couldn't be bothered with pretenses or fool's lullabies, nor could they be concerned with living a liar's life, feigning as though they'd sought out this scenario so they could feel alive again, experience something other than unyielding rage and hatred.

None of it mattered.

_They_ didn't matter. Regardless of how alike they may have been in the spotlight of daybreak--both essentially orphans and wholly directionless in the post-Eclipse O.Z.--this was not the time for useless psychobabble about feelings and mended bridges.

They'd fallen into each other because there was no one else to turn to in their time of overwhelming animalistic necessity. It was as simple as that.

This was not the time to learn the "truth" about the past fifteen annuals; not the time to help each other mend where both had failed to fix themselves. This was the time to hide their true selves among the encroaching shadows, the blackness of the shelter matching the shade of their tainted inner demons. This was the time to forget about everything that lay beyond the locked doors of reality and conscious notice.

No words were spoken after the door slammed, no gestures that could have been construed as even partially romantic or appropriate for the situation. There were only flashes of lightning that illuminated a darkened room scattered with ripped clothing and tattered, tarnished souls. There were only hedonistic grunts as nails dug into flesh, only the harried necessity to thrust their daily, suffocating uncertainty to the side, burying and losing it among the tangled sheets.

As they had done for most of their days, they fought each other, each struggling for dominance through the frenzy. As the storm raged, both had flashes of their former lives, of hating the other with an indescribable ferocity, of pale hands wrapping around necks and squeezing until the horrific surprise of defeat fled from dark eyes.

The flashes faded into fragments as they retreated into themselves. Their minds shut down as instinct took over, and they finally reached a teetering, rough compromise. Hands tightened into fists next to frantic bodies, but their fingers never touched; as joined as they were in the moment, it was solely a physical reaction, and their companion faded into unimportant nothingness.

When they finally fell off the ledge, diving uncaringly into the blinding heat, neither was aware that they shared a relieved sigh. The plaguing, tightened nooses slackened somewhat in the aftermath, and both felt a brief reprieve from the strangling, weighted coil that was their constant burden.

The thunder roared around them, the echoes and anger of the angels shaking the windows in their curses of the pairing. What they had just done was the last thing nature had ever intended--they were both made of burning anger, and the combination of that power was a fast moving, all consuming conflagration that would end up destroying them all in the process.

When he left her, the downpour punched him relentlessly, trying to beat the senselessness out of him. He didn't need its help feeling sullied, and scrubbed himself until he was red, raw and further exposed.

They tried--and failed--to rid themselves of the agony and disgust of letting it happen. Their collective discontent continued far beyond the next morning, the next week, the next month.

They barely said a word to each other, and spent little time together, for they shared no acknowledged common ground. They never spoke when they fled to and from each other in her room, concerned only with themselves and outrunning the ruthless truths of yesterday.

Everything faded into easily ignored fragments.

They liked it that way.

FIN


	21. Goodbye Again

_Author's Notes: Yay! RBFOD 'verse story!_

_:crickets:_

_Anyway. DG and Cain are not mine; the rest of this motley little crew is. This takes place a few years before "Terra Firma"; Jules is about three, Ashby is about seven, and Em is a newborn. _

_This piece is kind of a combination of "Scrutiny" and "Trip Around the Sun"; its focus is on a single OC and her past, only set in the confines of the RBFOD 'verse. It should become clear WTF I'm talking about as you read. I think. Hopefully, these elements won't deter anyone from reading; if they do, I totally understand. I do have two new standalone, general (and canonical character centric, woohoo!) pieces that should be posted sometime this week._

_There are more notes at the end, because I'm insanely verbose tonight._

_Thank you to Alamo Girl, Meredith Paris and Bee for the beta, squee and all around general awesomesauce. _

_Musical inspiration for this piece: "Goodbye Again" (Vertical Horizon) and "Roll Me Back In Time" (Sara Evans). _

_This is for to nadeshiko1, who, when I mentioned this crazy bunny, threatened me unless I wrote it down. :)_

* * *

**Goodbye Again**

Part of her knew she should have recognized the tall blonde the minute the front door opened and the slightly discolored bell clattered against the dense, etched glass in tired announcement. She had a sliver of evasive memory, one that whispered fleetingly, disorienting, indefinably, through her subconscious as she watched the woman lead two small children to the counter. She knew she'd seen that softly rounded, kind face before and should have been able to place the woman.

But she couldn't, not for the life of her.

Mostly, she realized much later, it was because she'd walked out on that life so long before that it was like a dissipating dream, fading into untraceable nothingness, its blurry remnants floating and disappearing into the morning light before she'd even opened her eyes. She hadn't thought about that life lately, about the ones she left behind; how could she expect herself to recognize someone she'd spent only a few weeks with?

_If you were a decent mother, you should have known it was her. But since you're not, you can't expect anything more. You have no _right _to expect anything from her._

The lack of identification frustrated her as she dipped the worn scoop into the buckets of ice cream. The metallic, grooved edge of the insulated carton pressed and indented painfully against her arm as she packed the ice cream into two dishes. As she pulled down the glass partition, she was unable to move her gaze from its reflective surface, and stifled a disappointed sigh, the same one she had every time she passed by a mirror--endless reminders that she was lifetimes from where she once had been.

Far away from where she had wanted to go. Far away from who she had wanted to be.

Her face was worn now, lined and weathered by reminders of goals and desires long since failed and abandoned. Her blonde hair had tinted to a dulled grey, the streaks unfurling her once animated curls. Her shoulders rolled forward with the heavy, burdensome weight of wandering in circles, seeking but never finding that which she had set out to chase so many annuals before. Her eyes were hard, the flecks of blue within green dulling with the tarnished dream that still haunted her all this time later. It hurt to smile now, only because she hadn't had much to smile about in a long time. It was as though her face--all of her--had forgotten how to be happy.

She'd been in Central City for almost thirty annuals, propelled there by hearing--and believing--that _this_ was where she supposed to be. She was too young to be fenced in, especially by a mistake, a lapse in judgment. She was too special, too talented to be anywhere but _here. _She knew in her heart of hearts she'd done the right thing. What she'd left behind--that wasn't _her._ She wasn't someone's wife, and she definitely wasn't someone's mother.

She was the ingénue with _the _golden voice and an even brighter road laid out before her feet for the taking. She'd basked in--had been blinded by--the beautiful, warm light of being dubbed "the next big thing" . But that light had started to fade somehow, evading her and slipping behind the dark clouds of reality in the big city entertainment business. She'd chased her hopes and dreams halfway across the Zone and back as they threatened to move on without her, seeking the success she had been promised--and had convinced herself of. But as the bleak actuality of the Sorceress's coup spread and its darkening effects began to wash over the city, dreamers--like the opportunities she'd come to Central City to find--fell into uninterested supply. Its loss left her feeling cold, listless, restless.

The ironic thing was, she really was a cut above the rest, so unlike the other "artists" that had come to Central City with the same dream; they'd all left within an annual or two. While they returned to their families and "normal" lives, dragging their wounded pride, broken hearts and battered suitcases as they hitched rides out of town, she did not run. She did not back down or give in, allowing the burning pain of rejection fuel her fire, propelling her forward against the mass exodus of the defecting, failure-ridden throng.

It had been so easy to pack her own suitcase, leave her childhood home, never look back; to live her life on a wing and a prayer--on _her_ terms. For all her annuals and disappointments in Central City, she'd never had the urge to pull out the dusty brown leather suitcase.

She'd sometimes wondered if she'd had something waiting for her, whether or not that would act as an impetus to get her to throw in the towel, pack up and head back.

But there wasn't anything worth wanting there, and she knew she had nothing to offer them anyway. If she were to make a mark in someone's life, it would be on stage with a powerful, moving performance; not in finger paintings or haggling over bills.

So she'd stayed, and refused to yield. She'd look at the oval mirror each morning and tell herself aloud that she was not a quitter. It worked for a few months, maybe an annual, until even the mirror didn't believe her anymore and started peeling its lacquered paint away, chips falling to the floor of her cramped one-room flat, leaving her as the sole audience member to her one woman show.

She'd tried to hold on to her principles as long as she could, looking for work only in respectable and musically inclined venues. But eventually, the necessity to eat far outweighed remaining true to the wishes and dreams that had been the only thing she'd brought from the tiny cabin on the outskirts of the realm. She'd swallowed her pride and talked to Tom, who owned the ice cream parlor housed on the first floor of her apartment building, and asked for a job.

She'd started working in the parlor with a thick scarf wrapped around her neck to protect her vocal chords. This was only temporary, she'd announced to coworkers and customers alike; she'd get back on her feet in no time, find her star-making role, and then Tom would put her picture up on the tiled walls and tell his customers that he knew her once upon a time.

That never happened.

She still sang each night; only it was to an audience of scraped metal stools teetering on a mismatched, scuffed and uneven black and white tile floor, red and white checkered napkins, and the hums of the cooling refrigerator and churning ice cream maker.

She still danced each night; only it was with a mop or broom, sometimes a sponge as she wiped down the countertop.

Her singing and dancing had been downgraded to hobbies meant solely to pass the time. Working at, and then owning the parlor, had been upgraded into her life's work. That which was supposed to be short-term had turned permanent. That which had been steadfastly ignored and entirely loathed evolved into the only thing she wanted.

She was now living the life she'd fled from--with a husband, two sons and a job she'd once termed banal those many days before.

_My, my, how things change_, she pondered, still starting at her reflection in the partitioned glass. _The dreams must have diverted when I wasn't looking. And obviously my sense of direction is hideous--how did I end up here when I meant to go the complete opposite way?_

Childish giggling drove her from her reverie, and she realized she'd gone into her own little world again. She slid the two cups of ice cream across the top shelf and smiled at the tykes as they talked animatedly with Jasper, her son, at the cash register.

The younger of the two had straight hair; the other one was older and looked very much like the woman who had brought her in, complete with blonde, curly hair that was quickly falling loose of the bows trying unsuccessfully to keep her pigtails in a neat line. The woman had a hand on that little girl's head and was smiling politely as their companion excitedly announced she had a new sister.

Jasper leaned on his elbows toward the girls, who scooted up to the warped wooden countertop, the rounded tips of their Mary Janes bending backwards as they pressed against the baseboard. "You know what that calls for, don't you, girls?"

The little ones' eyes opened wide, and both shook their heads. "No. What does it call for?"

Jasper reached across and took a spoon out from the cutlery tray. "Extra sprinkles!"

Two squeals of joy pierced through the condensation mist centered between the outside door and its hot summer day and the coolness of the ice cream. Jasper grinned as he dumped colorful toppings onto the girls' dishes.

When spoons left cups and headed toward mouths, the blonde woman cleared her throat. "What do you say, girls?"

"Fank fou," they replied in tandem, cheeks puffed to kingdom come as they hastily ate their treat.

The woman gave an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry. They're normally much more polite."

Jasper waved her concerns away. "They're beautiful little girls. Both yours?"

The woman shook her head. "The one in the pigtails is. The other one is my…niece of sorts."

Jasper raised an eyebrow. "Of sorts?"

"It's complicated."

They both turned and looked as the door flung open again. A man in a Royal Guard uniform strode to the woman's side. "Everything okay?"

"I told you, Jeffrey, we're fine."

"Cain'll have my," he lowered his voice, "ass if you keep taking the girls on 'normal' excursions."

"They're kids. They need fresh air and ice cream in the middle of July. Besides, Cain's too busy with DG and Emily. As long as I return Jules to him relatively unscathed, we'll be fine."

The store proprietor knew those names well, and walked from her perch behind the freezer to join the conversation.

Jasper turned to her. "Hey, Mom. What's up?"

"Nothing," she said, smiling briefly. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation." She looked between the Royal Guardsmen and the woman she assumed was the Royal Governess. Are you telling me that one of those girls is Princess Julia?"

The blonde woman nodded. "The one with the straight hair. The other one's mine."

Jasper looked amazed. "A real princess in our store, Ma. We should have her sign a napkin or something, tape it to the wall."

The woman's stomach tightened. Her desire to leave her mark was to be superseded by a four annual old. The gods had a sick sense of humor. "I don't think that's appropriate, Jasper."

"Probably not," her female customer agreed. "We're trying to bring the girls up as normally and quietly as possible. And from the way they're inhaling that ice cream, I think we'll be back here often. Might make for an embarrassing scene later on. She's quite sensitive."

The proprietor nodded. "A good plan." She motioned to the rows of ice cream. "Can I get either of you anything?"

Both adults shook their heads. The Guardsman smiled wistfully. "I remember when this place was run by old Mr. Lehigh. Not much has changed."

"People feel safe with what they know," Jasper agreed. "We waited five annuals to change it to Weston's. We'll have to wait another twenty before doing anything about the décor, even with as ugly as it is."

The blonde woman laughed, tilting her head back, and Mrs. Weston's body ran cold, ice slipping through her veins, numbing her. That laugh. Those looks. That _face_.

That laugh was Daniel Lowry's laugh. That face was Daniel Lowry's face. Only…Dan Lowry's face had _her_ coloring and curly hair as complements. Half of him, half of her.

_Oh, dear sweet Ozma…_

Mrs. Weston took a step backward, crashing noisily into the silverware container. Jasper looked concernedly at his mother. "You okay, Ma?"

Unable to find her voice, the proprietor nodded. "I need to go check on something in the back," she murmured hoarsely, turning quickly on her heel and fleeing into the safety of her locked office.

Sinking down into the chair, she put her head in her hands as she tried to calm her racing heart. The face had triggered something in the back of her mind from the moment the woman had walked into the establishment, but it was the laugh--the deep, free, amused-at-anything laugh that she'd heard so many times as a young woman--that finally let the final piece fall into place.

The woman out there with a Royal Guard, a Royal Heir and an apparent daughter of her own was _her_ daughter. Ainsley.

Adele slid her chair away from the desk, opened the door a crack, and watched around the doorjamb as Ainsley and the Royal Guardsman talked with Jasper. There was no flicker of recognition to her half-brother, just as there had not been with Adele.

_Given the fact that you left her when she could barely see past the end of her nose, what else were you expecting? That your motherly instincts--which have _never _failed you in the past, of course--would kick in and you'd have a happy, tearful reunion? She'd fall into your arms and forgive you for your sins of abandonment, of starting over in a life where you made sure there was no room for her?_

_Of choosing yourself over her?_

She'd spent so much time believing staying in Central City had been the right choice. It wasn't until she'd met, fallen in love with and married Tom's son five or six annuals after she'd left, that she'd finally realized the profundity of her actions. She'd abandoned a helpless infant, leaving her in the care of someone she didn't know well enough to trust.

Her relationship with Dan Lowry had been a complicated one, to say the least. He'd "come from the wrong side of the crack in the O.Z.", according to her father, whereas she was brought up in an upper-middle class home, never wanting for anything. She desired the world and her family happily handed it to her.

At seventeen, she'd snuck out to a concert in the Realm of the Unwanted, and met Dan Lowry as they both tried to avoid the throngs of dancers packed into the small hall. He was twenty-one, a musician, and completely wrong for her. So of course they dated.

She'd found out she was pregnant two months later. She'd never told Dan outright, but she hadn't wanted the baby. He did, though, so enthusiastically, for he thought it was a symbol of their love. But she hadn't really loved him; she liked him, but definitely did not want this for herself.

She tried the best she could, giving birth to a baby girl a week before Christmas, but she was smothered. Stifled. By Easter she was in Central City, finally breathing and living on her own. Finally happy. Finally away from the failures and mistakes.

She'd been stupid to think she'd never run into the man or the girl again. She'd been naïve to think she would always outrun her past. She'd been foolish in believing that part of her didn't exist anymore, that it could be swept under the rug and wholeheartedly ignored. She was unwise to think her actions irrelevant and inconsequential.

Should she say something? Should she introduce herself? It would be so easy to call out Ainsley's name, to reveal the truth about the woman in the ice cream shop. But after that, what to say?

How was she supposed to try to find explanations and answers to questions she still did not know how to ask? And who to ask them? Both deserved answers just as much as they deserved the questions.

_Why did you leave? Why didn't you ever come back? What am I to you?_

She may not have realized it twenty annuals before, but she did have something to go back to; some_one. _She'd squandered so many opportunities--her first career, her first shot at motherhood. They were irretrievably broken, and she felt profound sadness for all that she had missed.

She also felt anger. _Why didn't you ever come looking for me?_

_These were _your _mistakes, Adele. You can't expect everyone to fix your problems._

That was the trouble with her life. She expected too much. The only thing she was good at was failing.

She drew herself from her self-loathing reveries and watched Ainsley in the main room of the establishment. She was her father through and through--tall and with a mischievous glint in her eye. But those eyes held heartbreak; Adele could see that. Ainsley's shoulders slumped slightly, almost unnoticeable in their arch forward. Tired but not defeated. When she smiled at the girls finishing their ice cream, Adele saw Dan's playful nature in the half-curved lips of the blonde.

She saw a wedding ring on Ainsley's finger, and felt an unexpected pang of jealousy at having to add that to the list of things she'd missed.

_Because it's always been about you, hasn't it, Adele?_

_She was probably better off without you. She's obviously close to the Royal Family--even if she is from the wrong side of the crack. She's made a name for herself, a life for herself, in spite of you._

_Was it worth it? _

She knew the answer to that one.

_She's not your daughter, Adele. Never has been. Never will be. That girl is a Lowry through and through. And the only person you have to blame for that is yourself._

She wanted to shout out her apology, tell Ainsley that she was a changed woman who _did_ understand the errors of her ways. She wanted to say that the gods had punished her time and again for leaving; it was the only explanation as to why she was hiding in the back office of an ice cream shop instead of up on stage singing opera. Ainsley's life had not gone unnoticed.

Except by her own mother.

The two little girls had joined their chaperones at the cash register again, and Ainsley bent down to pick up her daughter--_your granddaughter_--and rested her expertly on one hip. The two little ones waved goodbye to Jasper and the four turned to the door.

This time, it was Adele who was left behind. This time, it was her front door that slammed shut. This time, it was she who was unsure as to whether or not she'd ever see the departed again.

Ainsley had left without so much as a goodbye.

_So did you, Adele. So did you._

FIN

* * *

_A/N 2: _Remember how I said I was working on missing moments between Jeb and Doc? Well, they're no longer moments; they're a big old two hundred page epic entitled "Don't Look Away" (or, the Really Big Prequel of Doom). You can learn more about how Jeb and Ainsley became "JebandAinsley", Adele, Adora, and this funny little Resistance Fighter named Brigid over at my writing site on Live Journal; that addy is in the profile.

It's rated M for _my mother would be mortified if she knew what I'd written. _AKA, the money scene's in Chapter Three.

Enjoy! And thanks for reading!


	22. Sentenced

_Author's Notes: This is all Meredith Paris' fault. (Which is probably a shock to her, since I didn't tell her I was doing this. Oh, well.) She posted the most amazing prompts/sentences (mostly for another fandom), and Charlie the muse said, "I want to do that, too!" We will completely fail in being as awesome as my dear Statler, but I thought, why not? I found these on the Live Journal community 1fandom, so credit to them for the prompts._

_These are kind of all over the place, time and character wise. I think the contexts should be self-explanatory, but a few are set during the series, and many are set in the DLA/RBFOD 'verse. You don't need to read those monstrosities to get the gist of the sentiments, though. Many of these are also intentionally vague, so feel free to let your minds wander. : )_

_Shout-outs to Hidden Relevance, who mentioned a barefoot princess in "Down the Road", which I loved so much that I included it in number 21; and to Lattelady and her beautiful "Say It With Flowers", which kind of crept in to number 37. Y'all rock, and thanks for letting me blatantly steal your ideas. Hee. Hopefully I won't screw them up too badly._

_I had a lot of fun with these, so I hope you enjoy them, too!_

* * *

**01. Step**

She has been fumbling through a sea of fog since the execution, walking blindly and in circles, but once she realizes they only way she'll ever see her father's murderer put to justice is to join the Resistance, her steps are determined and no longer directionless.

**02. Squeeze**

For the rest of her life, though she detests them as much as her sister hates wearing heels at formal gatherings, Azkadellia will never again kill even the biggest bug, because she's had enough death to last her several lifetimes.

**03. Dirt**

He used to enjoy digging in the dirt, chasing worms or hiding treasure, but tilled earth only holds a sense of dread now, because he's not burying anything except fallen comrades.

**04. Late**

She does her best work when the moons are high and when the stars are bright, because it is easier to let her failures fade into darkness than it is to ignore them in the unrelenting spotlight of day.

**05. Money**

It is nearly four weeks after they elope that Brigid comes to them with the sack full of funds collected from various bets on their relationship over the past annual; they look at each other and silently decide to funnel the money back into resisting and stopping the war, so they can stop being only a sergeant and medic and just be husband and wife.

**06. Aid**

When DG wakes up alone and in a strange place--again--the silence is deafening, and she wonders when her independent self became so reliant on three strangers.

**07. Myth**

He's heard the muttered, backhanded comments about the medic's icy aloofness, and has come close to introducing their disparaging mouths to his fist, but he realizes she doesn't need him to defend her virtue--she just needs him to be her friend.

**08. Piece**

Cain shouldn't have been surprised that DG handled a weapon so deftly, but he should have known better than to let Glitch try his hand at target practice without medical personnel standing closely by.

**09. Child**

Adora quietly watches their interactions, and notices how close they're becoming before they do; she tilts her head back and thanks the stars for the opportunity to love another child, the daughter she and Wyatt would never have.

**10. Confess**

When she tells him that she loves him, a thousand things happen at once--he cannot breathe, the room begins to spin, the excuses begin to form--and then she presses a gentle, fleeting kiss to his lips, and none of it matters anymore.

**11. Trick**

Azkadellia had been fooled by the Witch of the Dark; had been surprised when the hag turned from a weeping little girl into the princess's menacing downfall, but she'd been even more deceived in believing her parents would figure out a way to rescue her.

**12. Out**

They watch DG from the balcony overlooking the lake, and while Cain smiles when his wife leads Ashby to the water's edge and kneels down next to her, engaged in enthralling discovery with the splashing one-year-old, there is something sad and wistful to Ainsley's gaze, and she turns away without saying a word.

**13. Best**

They are complete opposites, he says, inferring a relationship would never work--he is steadfastly rigid and unemotionally calculating while she is prone to flights of fancy and an overflowing heart--and she interrupts by stubbornly informing him that their differences are not conflicts, but complements.

**14. Mother**

The walk from the medical ward to the roof is like wading through quicksand, because her leaden legs are working without guidance from her overtaxed brain, which is still trying to interpret just what the hell Ainsley meant when she said, "DG, you're pregnant."

**15. Book**

Everyone tells her there is no guidebook for adapting to life in the post-Eclipse O.Z., that she will figure it out with a bit of trial and error; she does not tell them that the last time she made an "error", it not only cost her sister her life, but hers as well.

**16. Victim**

She throws up the first time she loses a patient, and thinks that even if she had completed her official training, there was nothing that could have prepared her for staring at an unmoving chest and glassy eyes.

**17. Power**

In her entire life--even with the Witch's magic and during the Sorceress' reign--she has never felt more powerful than she does the first time she steps out of the Central City residence to buy bread at the local market alone.

**18. Redeem**

She holds her head high and keeps a gentle, unassuming smile on her face as she moves around the outdoor tents, but her façade cracks when a little girl comes up to her, hands her a daisy, and shyly says, "Thank you for stopping the fighting at the tower, Princess Azkadellia."

**19. Bleak**

The explosion of the gunshot in his chest buckles his knees, and the pain is excruciating until he feels DG's desperate embrace being slowly replaced by the loving, gentle arms of his mother, and he knows it's okay to let go.

**20. Shrapnel**

They argue all the way across the camp and into the medical tent; she's yelling that she doesn't have time to fix his stupid mistakes, and he's shouting that the next time he gets injured, he'll consult with her first, and then she's bent over her sink, breath hitching and tears falling, as the prospect of losing him nearly breaks her in two.

**21. Humane**

Though her mother was convinced the royal court--such that it was--would be scandalized by the prospect of a barefoot princess at a formal gathering, DG was correct in her assertion that nobody gave a flying fuck about her lack of torturous footwear, because they were all too busy thanking providence that they were alive.

**22. Anger**

Holding her goddaughter, DG is overwhelmed with emotion--awe at Ainsley's strength, wonder at the new life in her arms, tremendous love for her family--but she cannot help but feel outraged that there is a noticeable absence from the bedside, and her tears burn as they turn resentful.

**23. Team**

She has seen great collaborations in her lifetime--Cagney and Lacey, Goren and Eames, Papelbon and Varitek--but as she turns to face her friends, these saviors of herself and the O.Z., she thinks there is no better team in the history of either world.

**24. Terror**

The first time Adora could not find Jeb, she'd fallen into a desperately exhausted sleep in her husband's armchair and the toddler had climbed out of his crib; she tore the house apart, heart in her throat, until she heard a telltale giggle from the cupboards beneath the sink, and she finally remembered to breathe.

**25. Natural**

He is the most nervous member of the Gale-Cain household when Julia arrives, red faced, blonde haired and screaming--he wonders if he can do this again, if he _should_ do this again, given his propensity at failing to protect his loved ones--but DG looks up at him, takes his hand, and tells him it's natural to be scared; they'll figure it out together, just like they always have.

**26. Never**

His standard answer to her is "always" when she tells him to be careful, but the more he is away, the more she begins to wonder what would happen to her if he failed to live up to his promise.

**27. Fidelity**

She should not have been surprised when the reunion with her husband was not smooth or easy--they'd always had a fiery existence, even at the earliest part of their courtship, and fifteen annuals apart only added to the conflict--but even as they fought the tide of awkward silence and forced separation, she knew she didn't want to be anywhere else.

**28. Neglect**

She used to feel guilty when she left the medical tent for the solitude of the falls each night, feeling as though she was abandoning her patients, but when Jeb brings coffee and blankets and companionship, she realizes that in her fight to save everyone else, she'd started to lose herself.

**29. Face**

Though they should be the most scared of her, it is Raw and Glitch who hold Az's hands as she looks in the mirror for the first time, telling her they do not see a Sorceress or death or dark magic, but a lovely woman--a _friend_--who had once been lost, but was now found.

**30. Lurk**

The potted plants do nothing to hide not-so-subtle and giggling little girls from drawing their parents' attention, and though it is far past their bedtimes, formally dressed mother and father invite their pajama-clad daughters onto the dance floor.

**31. Grow**

He is afraid that in her duties as Queen, the vibrant girl he's just realized he's fallen in love with will fade into the background of royal propriety--but then he passes by the kitchen at midnight, sees her atop the counter, feet swinging, eating ice cream and laughing boisterously, and he realizes he's got nothing to worry about.

**32. Skin**

When she is tending to his gunshot wound, Ainsley has to put out of her mind that this man is not just another patient--he is her father-in-law, for Ozma's sake, another cord in the tether to the only family she's ever truly known--and he has no idea she's so much more than just the cell medic.

**33. Sick**

Steele thinks his best commander and his only medic are joking when they say they've both come down with bronchitis, but his smile fades when Jeb begins coughing violently; it returns once the two blonds are exiting the tent, arguing like the unruly children Steele had forgotten they should actually be.

**34. Dare**

He was standing in the square as Daniel Lowry was executed, feeling scalding hatred as the Sorceress laughed at the man's demise; though he'd sworn to avenge each meaningless death, an inexplicable, blinding determination flowed through him at the sight of Lowry's daughter, and he vowed he'd make the Sorceress pay for daring to destroy yet another family.

**35. Worth**

She worked without complaint or sleep, dealt with endless politics and lacking supplies, all without a word of encouragement or knowing of his admiration, and he promised himself he'd find a way to show her just how much she meant to him--to all of them.

**36. Last**

She watched him ride away, a heavy, foreboding knot in her stomach, praying that he had enough good luck--and she had enough faith to believe--to bring him back to her again.

**37. Year**

DG refuses to let anyone else take responsibility for the upkeep of Adora's and Jeb's graves, going out to the cabin a few times a year, dressed in her jeans and sneakers, and cleaning the plots off herself--because they are her family just as much as her sister or Cain, and she will not lose them, too.

**38. Prime**

As she throws the plate of food into the sink, fuming at the customer's outrageous indignation when his morning special came with chuck steak and not filet mignon, DG looks out over the endless prairie and wonders when her life is going to really start.

**39. Taste**

She knows going back to the Other Side is complicated, dangerous and unnecessary, but damn if there aren't some nights where she just _needs_ the quiet simplicity of a Blizzard from Dairy Queen.

**40. Beyond**

It hits her one night at dinner that these friends of hers had lives before her, and they should have lives now; she has to look down at her plate and hide her grateful tears as she realizes that they've gone above and beyond in giving her the unconditional love and acceptance she looked so long for.

**41. Final**

She finds it ironic that while she's working with open wounds and setting broken bones, her classmates are hidden away behind the shielding, naive walls of academia, complaining about their chemistry finals while she is worrying about keeping people alive.

**42. Event**

As he wipes the makeup from his face, there is a wisp of memory and he tries to catch it; he _knows_ he was better than this run-down theater, that people flocked from far and away to see him, but he can't recall specifics, only fleeting images--but then there is a knock on the door, and a girl in a party dress stands before him, and the recollection floats out the window and into the night without him.

**43. Secure**

She has always been the maker of her own destiny, relying on herself--never anyone else--to find relative safety and happiness, but she finds herself yielding to his protective embrace as they lie together and his snoring tickles the top of her hair.

**44. Ring**

It's odd, but one of the first things DG misses from the Other Side is the ring on her cell phone--because nothing could bring a smile to her face like the exuberant "two, three, four!" of the Dropkick Murphys and "Tessie".

**45. Settle**

The longer she spends in the O.Z., the more she begins to question the accuracy and importance of her life and experiences on the Other Side; even the smallest things, like whether or not the creaky noises she'd associated with the old farmhouse settling were actually her robo-parents tuning themselves up.

**46. Energy**

The first time she held the Emerald, she felt its pulsating energy flood through her body, igniting her magic, and she instinctively knew it would lead to nothing but heartache and destruction.

**47. Center**

When DG was seven and did not make it back to the house by sundown, Emily was gathering the phone numbers for the local authorities, the state police, the national missing children's clearinghouse in Washington, the FBI, the National Guard and INTERPOL when Hank carried the little girl in the front door, explaining that he'd found her sound asleep in the hayloft.

**48. Ordinary**

After exhausting months of "official" this and "royal" that, Cain quietly asks Az to clear her sister's schedule, and tells the maids to let the Queen sleep in; when she wakes and comes down to the kitchen in search of breakfast and an explanation, he's made pancakes and is reading the newspaper while Glitch passes Raw the syrup.

**49. Voice**

The airy song surprises the castle's residents as it floats through the hallway, and the staff searches for the source; they are surprised and amused to see that it is the Royal Medic who is singing--and then they begin to dread the day the Queen finds out Ainsley can carry a tune, for it means endlessly loud duets.

**50. Hang**

She'd always held out hope that Azkadellia would break free of the Witch's possession somehow, had searched for any hint of her firstborn each time the Sorceress entered her prison, but when she saw the Emerald hanging from Azkadellia's neck, Lavender finally realized her daughter was truly dead.

FIN


	23. Sentenced, Part Two

_Author's Notes: Well, I had way too much fun with the first set of these, so here's another one. Same deal as before; various characters and times, including some DLA/RBFOD 'verse inclusion. I have three more sets completed (yes, I know I need a life); those will be posted throughout the week._

_Credit again to Lattelady for being the first person I saw point out the irony in number 38, and thanks to the LJ site 1fandom for the prompts. Additionally, the singing Red Sox bottle opener (46) is indeed a true thing; my sister has one, because my family is made of special._

_Major, major thanks and glompy hugs to Alamo Girl, SpikesSweetie and Meredith Paris for the inspiration and for looking these over--and for breaking into song in their beta notes. Love you girls!_

* * *

**01. Mortal **

The first time he sees her cry, he is startled to realize that for as stubborn as she is, how easily she's handled the horrors revealed to her, she is still a young, vulnerable woman, and he steps up when he recognizes it's his turn to carry the burden.

**02. Broken **

He thought he could not feel as lost and shattered as he did the minute he ran past the white elm and discovered his wife's grave--but when he saw his son's resting beside it, he truly knew heartbreak.

**03. Vanish **

It will never be easy to live life without him, but as the days fade into weeks, cycles, annuals, the pain is not as blinding, and she finds the strength to put one foot in front of the other.

**04. Rain **

When Ainsley appears at the top of the falls, looking down on her splashing and rowdy comrades, everyone expects her to chastise them and proclaim them to be acting like children; they are stunned into dumbfounded silence as the spray from her cannonball rains down on them.

**05. Ocean **

As he leaves, the fury radiates off him in waves, and they are so far apart in their anger that she wonders if they will ever be able to cross the chasm.

**06. Tense **

She loves him, she really does, but sometimes she swears that if he questions her perspective or neutrality one more time, she's going to pop him one--and hard.

**07. Soon **

As the excruciating hours of labor drag on, Ainsley wishes for her father, for Adora, for Jeb--for anyone that loves her--and then DG is there with a cool rag and holding her hand, whispering that it'll all be over soon.

**08. Why **

The swish of leather against marble momentarily stops Ambrose from fighting his captors as they drag him to the medical ward, and he wonders how and why this beautiful little girl turned into such a wretched monster.

**09. Winter **

The last time Azkadellia was at the Northern Palace, the Witch was still dominant inside her, forcing her into compliance and into capturing DG and her friends; she shivers at the memory-- not the cold--but then she hears DG yell from one of the rolling hills behind her, and cannot help but laugh as her sister squeals, sliding very unprincess-like down the incline.

**10. Fallen **

He realizes he's fallen for her long before he's ready to admit it, and he runs from the burning realization, leaving her cold, confused and hurt.

**11. Storm **

The first time it rained after Julia was born, Cain was out of bed and to her bassinette in a flash, expecting her to cry out among the thunder and lightning--just like Jeb did when he was small--but she continued to sleep soundly, and he again wondered if he knew anything about how to raise a child.

**12. Door **

Cain and Ainsley are forced to send a page to get DG out of a meeting with the guilds the first time three-year-old Ashby and one-year-old Julia lock themselves in a bedroom; the Queen cannot use her magic to unhitch the latch for a good five minutes, because she's laughing too hard.

**13. Flash **

She is gone in an instant, lost among an ambush, darkness and a blinding net, and he hears himself calling out just like he did for his wife and son, hoarse and desperate, and feels infinitely useless again.

**14. Wait **

Jeb holds his breath when he hears the hooves and footsteps shuffling along the leaf-covered forest floor as the Longcoats approach the Resistance stakeout, and hopes to himself that Zero puts up a fight, so he can deposit a bullet or six in the bastard's chest and finally avenge his parents.

**15. Shrine **

When she returns to her room after the Eclipse, there are reminders of the Witch everywhere; in one grand, sweeping movement, everything is shattered on the floor, and she doesn't care about the bad luck associated with breaking a mirror, because she's already had a lifetime of curses.

**16. Black**

Her one thought when one of DeMilo's twins hands her the evening dress was not about how they were going to hide in plain sight, or what she'd do if the Mystic Man didn't have the answers she sought; instead, she worried about exactly _where_ that dress had been in its previous life.

**17. Lost **

Jeb's small, chubby hand clutched Adora's tightly as the transport wagon jerked over the rocky ground, and she found herself praying to protective deities she wasn't sure she believed in anymore to keep her son safe and by her side.

**18. Cell **

Lylo never believed there was a fate worse than being locked away from food, water or the outside world--and then he was taken to read for the Sorceress.

**19. Villain **

It had been in frustration that Raw had roared at DG, Cain and Glitch after they freed him from the Papay field, as he'd realized he'd be forced to choose the lesser of two evils--the predatory runners or the untrustworthy humans.

**20. Road**

Even many years after the Eclipse, she still feels guilt that she didn't hear the TDESPHTL the first time Glitch walked them in a complete circle in search of the Brick Route; she has never asked whether or not one less minute inside the Iron Maiden would have made a difference--she just knows it would have.

**21. Weep **

The first time he kisses her, she is surprised and protesting and anxious and confused, and then all she can do is sigh against his mouth and think, _"Finally."_

**22. Blind **

She should be amused by the fact that her son has yet to realize he's in love with Ainsley Lowry, but each time Jeb sneaks a completely evident glance at the medic, Adora is taken back to another time and another blond-haired man, and her already devastated heart breaks a little more.

**23. Pact **

Long before there was the exchange of wedding rings or fiercely protective, encompassing hugs, there was a silent nod and unspoken but steadfast promise that he wasn't going anywhere, and neither was she.

**24. Flight **

She will never be the expected, perfect fairytale princess; will not gracefully float on air or avoid domestic situations with just a wink and a smile--and it terrifies her.

**25. Hard **

The first time they fall together, they are far from balanced--equally tarnished, broken, jaded--but there is an indescribable comfort in knowing the other is their complete match.

**26. War **

He loves her, he really does, but sometimes he swears it's easier to talk down a pack of Papay or spear-wielding guild fighters than it is to reason with her.

**27. Deed **

They are careful to hide it from their sergeant and medic, but The Day After, there is a camp-wide sigh of relief and exchange of high-fives as the palpable sexual tension finally lessens its strangling hold on all of them.

**28. Unknown **

He has no idea why anyone would write a song about dirty water, or who Tessie is, or why someone climbed a topsail and lost his leg, but damn if he doesn't catch himself humming DG's Other Side songs in the shower.

**29. Deep **

He'd told Glitch the man was a deep well, but he'd had no idea just how truthful his words were; as they escaped predicament after predicament, and as Glitch proved himself time and again, Cain came to realize just how wrong his initial assessment of the "Zipperhead" was.

**30. Sudden **

During the O.Z.'s Independence Day celebration, everyone pretends not to notice the startled jump and pained flinch from Azkadellia when they set off the fireworks.

**31. Dread **

It wasn't because of the corset that she couldn't breathe; she had to go out there and face those people--many of whom rightfully still blamed her for the terror they'd experienced--and she clutched her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth, wishing there was a way for her to run and never come back.

**32. Burn **

The first time his hand finds hers, it is by accident, and they both wrench their fingers away as though they've just been scalded by a flame of inevitability.

**33. Clock **

It is often too quiet in the palace, and the silence reminds her just how alone she is; at night, she matches her breathing to the rhythm of the clock on her mantle, and pretends she does not feel lost.

**34. Words **

He has never been good at finding the right words, so he relies on a chair, a blanket, a lukewarm dinner plate and candles in a jar, and hopes she understands.

**35. Fast **

He realizes a little too late that she's always two steps ahead of him, and he wonders if he's got the inclination or the energy to chase after her.

**36. Three **

She will never forget everything she, her family and her kingdom have been through, but hearing the squealing, delighted laughter of three little girls playing tag in the hallway outside her office somehow makes all the heartache worthwhile.

**37. Place **

With all the references she makes to places on the Other Side--Kansas, Boston, California, France--he wonders if he won't wake up one day and there will only be a note to remind him she was ever here in the first place.

**38. Irony **

It is Ahamo who points out the irony that she was planning on running away to Australia; at her blank look, he says that though it might not have been the place she'd intended to go, she'd still ended up in Oz after all.

**39. Sky **

While everyone else runs for cover when the skies open up and the rain whips around them, she stands on the broken cobblestone and watches the water wash the blood away.

**40. Closet **

Their first home as a married couple was nothing more than a hole in the wall, and they would move after the birth of their first child, but he'd still carried her over the threshold into the place that was solely _theirs_, indescribably happy that they'd finally found their place in the world.

**41. Real **

Once she admits to herself she's in love with him, she is fearful of jumping off the cliff into unknown nothingness, afraid he won't like what he sees if she falls into the void, into _him_--and then she realizes he's already seen her at her worst, and is still there beside her.

**42. Fair **

She loves her mother, she really does, but dear gods in heaven, does the woman not understand _anything_?

**43. Knot **

The first time Jeb gently takes her unruly hair out of the knot on top of her head and runs massaging fingers across her scalp, Ainsley realizes there is a heaven after all.

**44. Low **

It is in the quiet of the night when the most carefully kept secrets are revealed in gentle voices, and a comforting hum spreads from their bedroom across the palace.

**45. Well **

He pretends to be understanding when the doctors, DG and Azkadellia tell him there is no way to put his brain back in his head, but he cannot remember whether or not he is a good liar.

**46. Token **

She brushes him off the first time he asks why she's hiding in the corner of the balcony crying, and only understands half of what she mumbles--something about red socks and a singing bottle opener--and he realizes she misses Before just as much as he does.

**47. Ugly **

They've had some loud knockdown, drag out fights--have said some ugly, nasty things before slamming the door and walking away--but the rings on their left hands remind them that they chose to be here, for better or for worse.

**48. Lure **

He realizes he is in a mobat shitload of trouble when she hears her truly, fully laugh for the first time; that laugh, that smile, those sparkling eyes--they will be his downfall.

**49. Drink **

When Jeb leaves Ainsley's side after the Chatham House celebration with only a meaningful, lingering look--not the kiss they'd all hoped was coming--Brigid decides not to bang her head against the nearest tree trunk, but to talk to Macklin about upping the alcohol in Granddad's Secret Recipe the next time they have a cell function.

**50. Dust**

While her eyes had watered a few times when particles of dusty road pierced the protective lenses of her goggles, she truly cried when she realized she'd never see those once damned prairies or smell day-old diner food again.

FIN


	24. Sentenced, Part Three

_Author's Notes: So, are you guys sick of me yet? Wait, don't answer that._

_Here's the third batch of 50 prompts/50 sentences. These ones bring the DG/Cain flangst. Again, some are in the RBFOD 'verse. Thank you to all those who have commented on these; I sincerely appreciate your insight and encouragement. Batches four and five will be up tomorrow and Thursday._

_Thanks, as always, to the trio of awesomeness: Alamo Girl, SpikesSweetie and Meredith Paris (especially for the suggested rewrite for the "home" prompt. So true, Mel. So. True.)_

* * *

**01 Walk **

They prefer to take different paths--his simple and direct, hers whimsically wandering--but somehow, they always wind up in the same place in the end.

**02. Beauty **

He walks in on her singing a song--"Beauty and the Mess" by Nickel Creek--and when she comments on how appropriate the song is for the two of them, he wonders who she considers to be the most disappointing mistake.

**03. Catch **

He has spent so much time chasing after her, fighting to keep up with her--on the Brick Route, after visiting the Mystic Man, through the maze at Finaqua--that his tired legs burn and he wonders if they'll ever slow down.

**04. Speak **

Neither say a word when he takes off his duster and folds it around her shoulders, but the night catches and cradles her whispered "good night" as she lays down on the ground and falls into a fitful sleep while he keeps watch.

**05. Lack**

Sometimes, it is painfully obvious that they really are from two different worlds.

**06. Mine **

She is torn between her respect for him--and, subsequently, respect for his dead wife and the ring that remains on his left hand--and her desire to have the whole world know that while part of his heart will always remain faithful to Adora, the majority of it now belongs to the Crown Princess.

**07. Laugh **

At first, he found it annoying that she was seemingly flippant and constantly joking, but the more time he spends with her, he realizes she laughs so she will not be forced to cry.

**08. While **

She thinks they have all the time in the world to go from friends to _something more_, but then she's halfway across the Realm without him, and the hourglass runs out.

**09. Youth **

He sees her cooing at a baby in the crowd during one of her so-called "meet and greets" with the citizenry, and catches her wistful gaze as it finds him; he turns away, wondering if he'll have the stones to break her heart and tell her he's not sure he wants that life again.

**10. Stay **

They are both surprised when she is the one to say he should go, but when he says he'd rather stay, she doesn't argue; instead, she just locks the door, and her eager fingers find the buttons on his shirt.

**11. Fill **

Her "midnight snacks" have a tendency to turn into three or four course meals, but he does not say anything about the ludicrous amount of food she puts in front of him, because he knows what it feels like to desperately want to feel useful.

**12. Distraction **

If she keeps running her hand along his thigh during policy meetings, their relationship won't be a secret much longer.

**13. Fear **

The first time he sees her truly and unequivocally scared, her eyes are wide and pained, and the contractions are only a few minutes apart.

**14. Crash **

There was nothing he could say to her as the mechanics powered off her robo-parents for the last time, so he just gathered her in a protective hug, rubbed her back and rested his chin on the crown of her head, wishing he could hide her from the pain.

**15. Look **

She sees the blonde hair and blue eyes of her daughter, and realizes this is the first truly good thing she's ever done in her life.

**16. Begin **

At the beginning, she was a stubbornly blind kid and he was a broken, angry man; they never thought the burning distrust that colored their first meeting would cool into the strongest of foundations.

**17. Second **

She realizes early on she will be the second love of his life, and has many sleepless nights as she tries to decide whether or not she's okay with always being one step behind.

**18. Violet **

She's not sure how or where he got it, but after a particularly hard day wherein she (and everyone else, truth be told) questioned whether or not she was capable enough to run the country, there is a flower from the Papay fields on her desk as a silent reminder that she's already proven she's strong enough.

**19. Candy **

She cannot control a light chuckle as she has to clean off his cheek from Julia's sticky goodnight kiss before they enter the grand hall for a state dinner.

**20. Nothing **

It takes nearly eight months of sleeping beside her until he finally makes it through the night without nightmares; he is shocked when he wakes and the sun is shining, and when she groggily asks what's wrong, he replies with the answer he never thought he would: "Nothing."

**21. Familiar **

He is dismayed at the excited tension he feels when he sees her walking determinedly across the overgrown field and toward his front door; she was supposed to be part of the failed past he'd left behind.

**22. Show **

The angry, frustrated reprimand that had been building since the guards told him she'd disappeared dies on his lips when he hears her at the piano, singing a lullaby to her recently insomnia-ridden sister, whose eyes flutter as she finally finds respite on a chaise in the music room.

**23. Day **

Sometimes she wonders if she'd ever be able to make it through a single day if he weren't there with an encouraging nod or guiding hand at the small of her back.

**24. Ask **

Sometimes, she questions why he's still here after all this time, but will never ask, fearing her query may make him realize there's no reason to stay.

**25. Think **

Glitch is excitedly explaining the findings of his latest experiment, and they are not fully paying attention until the inventor proclaims, "Think of the possibilities!"--and then their eyes meet across the room, and both realize they already have.

**26. Hair **

There is something indescribably sexy about a man who knows how to braid his daughters' hair.

**27. Home **

It is not until they are separated--she bound by her duties and he by his devotion to his family--that she realizes the isolation she felt on the Other Side is nothing in comparison to the loss she feels when they are apart.

**28. Loud **

She always has to bother Ainsley for aspirin after a family dinner, but the boisterous, sometimes incoherent noise--silverware clanking, babies crying, dishes passing--is the best kind of loud.

**29. Travel **

Her voice is distant and longing when she speaks about the Other Side, and sometimes he wishes he were smart or powerful enough to take her back, even for a minute, just so she'd feel whole and happy again.

**30. Damage **

He never relinquished the tight hold on her hand throughout any of it--when the mechanics told her they could not be reprogrammed, when Hank and Emily did not recognize or remember her, when they watched from the royal carriage as Father Vue ushered her parents back into Milltown--and he held her as she sobbed uncontrollably.

**31. Strength **

She cannot quantify the amount of strength he has within him--she's discovered her family in her time in the Zone, while he has lost his--and wishes he'd let her tell him just how much she admires him.

**32. Together**

Even from the time they were small, Julia and Emily loved to watch their parents interact--whether it was eating, working, fighting or dancing, they did it flawlessly, always together and always in perfect rhythm.

**33. Push **

Just when they think they've been pushed to the limit, their _oh so beloved _spouse says something like _that._

**34. Safe **

He'd always felt safe in knowing and understanding life's roles and experiences, and then she came along and turned his world upside down.

**35. Private **

He is the only member of the entire palace--staff or family--that is allowed to enter her office when the door is closed, and he considers it an honor.

**36. Light **

She is horribly drunk as she tries to remember some joke about how many Munchkins it takes to change a light bulb, and her hiccup-ridden giggling is infectious.

**37. Big **

She stops in the shadows when she hears him quietly ask a sleeping Julia not to grow up too fast, and tears tickle the back of her eyes at the thought of the strongest man in the O.Z. being wrapped around a six-month-old's finger.

**38. Want **

Everyone has given her extravagant gifts for her birthday, and he has worried that his small present will not be appropriate for the new Queen--but then he sees her reaction to her once-lost locket, and knows he could have not done any better.

**39. Law **

There are some who would have her quickly married, saying the country needs a Consort as much as it needs a Queen, and his heart--the one she has unknowingly mended--stops as he realizes they have just been biding time before this onslaught of inevitability; she will pick someone better, and his happiness will once again prove to be fickle and fleeting.

**40. Canine **

They are so proud when Emily takes her first steps--and then quickly leap to their own feet as she charges down the hallway, grabbing for Toto's tail.

**41. Truth **

The first time she admits she loves him, they are yelling and he is ridiculously _stubborn_ and she wants to pull her hair out--and even her admission doesn't stop their argument.

**42. Smoke **

After the first assassination attempt, he thinks he is dead too, until the smoke clears and he sees she is still breathing.

**43. Order**

She loves him enough to tell him he doesn't need to wear the official Royal Guard uniform to the formal functions at the palace.

**44. Feel**

There is such a dichotomy between their hands--his are worn and calloused where hers are soft and smooth; his fingers are large whereas hers are thin and nimble--but somehow they just seem to fit perfectly together like puzzle pieces.

**45. Finish **

Panic is written on both their faces when Julia climbs up on her mother's bed, and after being introduced to her new sister, asks when she can have another one.

**46. Through **

Sometimes he wonders if he'd ever be able to make it through a single day if she weren't there with a gentle smile and endless faith in him.

**47. Race **

She used to feel "the need for speed," racing from one thing to another--looking for what, she still does not know--but there is something to be said for a leisurely stroll alongside the one you love.

**48. Need **

The only thing she's ever needed him to do was trust her, and he does, fiercely and unyieldingly-- even if he cannot tell her that.

**49. Splash **

She surfaces with a shudder, sputtering water from her gaping mouth, but he remains silently stoic on the shoreline, pretending as though he hadn't just grabbed her about the waist and chucked her into the lake to stop her tirade.

**50. Thrill**

There is still a tingling excitement in her stomach each time he smiles at her, hugs her or takes her hand, and she hopes it never fades.

**FIN**


	25. Sentenced, Part Four

_Author's Notes: Same deal as before; various contexts and characters (some clearer than others) and some DLA/RBFOD 'verse inclusion._

_Thanks to Alamo Girl, SpikesSweetie and Meredith Paris for being made of awesome. Well, except for Alamo Girl...we all know what she is. :) (If you haven't done so yet, go check out "Home"'s newest chapter. Awesome.)_

* * *

**01. Move**

They have danced around each other long enough, he decides, and finally leans in to connect the electric circuit that's been buzzing between them for the better part of an annual.

**02. Sleep **

She wonders when she developed the inability to fall asleep without his hands in her hair.

**03. Inspire **

Though she's sure her parents or friends have suggestions on what she should say to the men who have come to protect the tower from their enemies, she decides to address them not as their Queen, but as someone who's just like them--scared and unsure.

**04. Sweat **

She feels unspeakably guilty for wanting a shower to rid her body of the blood, sweat and tears; the men she has failed did not have time for any thought other than hoping she would be able to save them.

**05. Lovely **

She doesn't realize that he sits in the shadows outside the music room each night, listening to her as she sings and tries to soothe the terror and restlessness out of her sister.

**06. Breathe **

He tends to stay awake far after sleep takes her and her breathing evens, because it takes longer to convince himself that she's right there next to him, safe and sound.

**07. Rough **

He sees the relief on his wife's face when he asks where he can find a razor to get rid of the ridiculous sideburns, and smiles for the first time in fifteen years.

**08. Strike **

He has to take a breath and calm himself before turning to face the Longcoat transport, adjusting the hood to hide his face; the knife is burning and heavy on his hip as it itches to plunge itself into Zero's chest.

**09. Help **

He's told her repeatedly that she can come to him at any time, for anything, but there is always something that keeps her from doing so--perhaps it is the fear of both of them realizing she is not as strong as they'd hoped.

**10. Resist **

Lorraine tells him it's too dangerous for them to join the rebel faction, and pleads with him to think of the children; Ralph replies that he's doing just that, and contacts the nearest cell leader the next day.

**11. Meet **

She is not jealous or doubtful of her relationship with the Tin Man when he speaks of his late wife, and there is a part of her that thinks they could have been dear friends in another lifetime.

**12. Taut **

His face is tight and his body is rigid as he storms angrily across the campsite; everyone holds their breath until he steps beyond the flaps of the medical tent and into the (mostly) sympathetic arms of their cell doctor.

**13. Thirst **

As he bends over the edge of the pier to take his first drink of water in eight annuals, the water catches his reflection, and he wonders when his eyes became so deadly cold.

**14. All **

When Adora finally slides her ring off--the first time she's removed it since her wedding day--she presses it into her son's palm and hopes he finds everything that has eluded her.

**15. Fog **

The mist from the cool water rises and condenses in the summer air, swirling around her and causing goosebumps to prickle her skin; he tightens his grip around her shoulders, and she is no longer cold.

**16. Before **

There comes a day when neither of them can remember their fathers' faces; when they can no longer call up the men's features in their minds' eyes, they are lost in their private despair, and the distance across the small medical tent is as wide as the crack in the O.Z.

**17. Hurt **

He has been injured a hundred times over--shot, stabbed, hit with shrapnel of every kind--but when her eyes doubt him, he knows what true pain is.

**18. Kind **

He is constantly amazed that she can talk with anyone about anything; her smile never wavers, her voice is always soft but interested, and he knows the patients appreciate it, because he understands how special it feels for her to act like someone's the only person in the world who matters.

**19. Warm **

She cannot contain a groan as another knock sounds against her door, but when it opens and Cain enters with a mug of steaming hot chocolate complete with floating, melting marshmallows--because he knows she hates chamomile tea--she finds the strength to smile for the first time all day.

**20. Pattern **

She holds on to the piece of fabric Adora had set aside for her wedding quilt as though it is the most precious thing in the Zone; her favorite birthday present is a frame DG finds in one of the Central City markets, and she slides the fabric square behind the glass, protecting the talisman of motherly love from fading or fraying.

**21. Cycle **

Their constant corrections that it's _cycle,_ not month, or _annual_, not year, just serve as another jabbing, painful reminder that she does not belong here.

**22. Glow **

Their linked hands glow warmly, but cold apprehension always flows through her just as much as their light does, because she is convinced DG will let go again.

**23. Zero **

No one had ever challenged him this way before; he didn't know it at the time, but he had zero chance of escaping her--he was as good as sentenced the first time he laid eyes on her.

**24. Wonder **

Sometimes, she feels badly for dragging Cain to kingdom come and back as she rediscovers the Zone, but then she realizes he is learning how to live again--just like she is.

**25. Scold **

He knows he is in serious trouble the first time Julia blinks up at him with her mother's unfathomably expressive blue eyes--he's failed terribly at keeping DG in line; why did he think it'd be easier to do it to her daughter?

**26. Figure **

Though the glow from the sunlit windows behind her should have made her reminiscent of an ethereal being, Lonot sees nothing but a devil before him, and his explanation of why he hasn't yet found her Emerald turns into little more than a stutter.

**27. Then **

She had no way of knowing that the tornado she'd leapt into would not be the biggest storm she'd face.

**28. Lie **

There have been countless times during the annuals that she was unable to look herself in the eye, but it is never harder than after she tells DG she doesn't blame her for running away that day.

**29. Hunt **

They pretend this cat-and-mouse chase is a game, waiting for the other to blink first, but there is a part of them that knows they will never break the stalemate and move forward into fearfully uncharted territory.

**30. Mistake **

She makes three different friends at the hospital repeat the pregnancy test, and terrified dread weighs her bones during each of the interminable waits.

**31. Birth **

There is no adjective to describe the excruciating, searing pain, and she wishes for a merciful drug to end her suffering--and receives it in the form of a newborn's wail.

**32. Cut **

He is brash, stubborn, cocky and doubtful of her abilities, but even as frustrated and short-tempered as she feels, she pours the antiseptic on his arm and sends the ungrateful little bastard back out to fight another day.

**33. Double **

There is not enough alcohol on either side to dull her pain or ice her heart into unfeeling when he finally leaves.

**34. Cover **

If it's the last thing she does, she _will_ institute karaoke in the O.Z., just because there is something uproariously hilarious about the visual of Glitch singing "I Will Survive".

**35. Lick **

There are times when she can't decide whether she'd rather slap that damned half-smirk off his face, or if she should kiss it away.

**36. Wheel **

She doesn't know if it's her driving or the Brick Route that rocks their vehicle as they leave the palace behind, but DG puts a comforting, guiding hand on her arm, and Ashby relaxes--and then pushes the gas pedal all the way to the ridged floorboard.

**37. Slight **

A piece of her heart breaks every time she notices someone flinch as she approaches, and she wonders how long it will be until it is gone and she returns to being nothing more than an unfeeling hag.

**38. Fling **

He hadn't anticipated joining her each night for shared coffee and paperwork, nor had he planned on turning down what Macklin called "a sure thing" with Charlotte in favor of checking on her--and he sure as hell hadn't intended on this turning into his one and only.

**39. Sorry **

There are only so many ways she can apologize, but she will never stop trying.

**40. Call **

He was not surprised or fearful when the Longcoats thundered up the stairs--the theater manager had called to warn him of their approach, and it wasn't as though the army was unknown in Central City--but he was unprepared for the callously determined face that accompanied the fedora and six-shooter.

**41. Jewel**

She finds it appropriate when the crown the maids place on her head stays askew in spite of their best efforts; it's a physical manifestation of her overwhelming sense of unbalance.

**42. Fruit **

Only Ahamo notices his wife's unease when Ambrose declares his love for Papay fruit, because he too remembers when their old friend detested the same food.

**43. House **

She doesn't quite remember what she said to Ainsley to force the woman into giving up Cain's location; all she knows is that he's never seemed further away and unapproachable than he does as he watches, expressionless, as she walks to his front door.

**44. Swim **

The visage at Finaqua is worthy of a painting: the suns are casting beautiful shades of orange and yellow, the flowers are in vibrant bloom, storks glide across the still water…and then two endlessly enthusiastic little girls leap into the lake, and the glorious quiet is shattered.

**45. Family **

It is not until they're gone that she realizes just how much she misses being a part of something she'd never understood or appreciated before--a family.

**46. Interest **

The moments after DG freed him from the suit are mostly a blur; the first thing he recalls is her irate expression and bitingly terse words after he called her a kid, and he remembers wondering just where this crazy spitfire of a girl came from.

**47. Record **

She thinks it must be divine intervention when she is exploring the palace basement one day and finds a cricket ball; she is transported back to softball fields browning beneath the summer sun--and the ten strikeout pitching performance that clinched the rec league championship.

**48. Glass **

The entire palace jumps when they hear vases and picture frames shatter; DG's cheeks flush an embarrassed red when they come to investigate, explaining that the curveball got away from her.

**49. Shape **

Azkadellia's clay figure has a slightly off-center face, and DG has painted her shoes a color that reminds him more of Holland than it does her, but his daughters' present is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

**50. Live**

She has always moved forward--not quite recklessly but still determined--and wonders what's holding her back when it comes to him.


	26. Sentenced, Part Five

_Author's notes: Me again, and I bring you...more sentences. But (maybe?) you'll be happy to know that I am working on a much longer piece in between this prompt obsession I seem to have developed, so you'll be getting something of substance soon. I hope. :)_

_Same deal as before--various characters and contexts, and still a few DLA/RBFOD mentions._

_Thanks, as always, to the phenomenal Alamo Girl, the amazing SpikesSweetie and the RAWesome Meredith Paris. They're Charlie's Angels--literally. The muse loves 'em. A lot._

* * *

**01. Dozen**

There are a dozen excuses--a hundred, a thousand--as to why they should not do this, but they both know their protests are half-hearted at best, and so they remain unspoken.

**02. Flatter **

She knows she should feel something other than terror when the citizens come up and thank her for ridding them of the Sorceress; she cannot help but wonder what they will do to her when they realize it was all her fault in the first place.

**03. Angle **

The girl introduces herself and notices he's injured; he feels foolish for thinking she was different than the rest of the unconcerned humans in the Zone when she says, "He could be a big help."

**04. Take **

She is certain she wants nothing more than to disappear for a few hours and search for desperately craved solace in the dispersed moonlight, and then he appears with dinner and a sympathetic ear, and she is glad he can find her when she's most lost.

**05. Need **

She can deal with wanting him the way she does; it is needing him that scares her beyond measure.

**06. Blush **

Sometimes it feels as though they are interrupting an intensely private moment when they see the two of them exchange a heated gaze across a room, and they always look away for propriety's sake.

**07. Word **

In her boredom, she creates a homemade Scrabble board--which seems like a good idea until she and Glitch get into a ridiculously passionate argument about the correct spelling of 'muglug'.

**08. Apathy **

At the beginning, she thought he was unemotional because she was a stranger and he didn't give two craps about her, but as she gets to know him, she realizes he tries to remain detached because he feels too much.

**09. Whist (card game)**

She tries to teach them Texas Hold 'Em after they decide to abandon Scrabble as a means to pass the time, but that only leads to headaches as she tries to explain where the state is, and why it's considered the southwest when it's really smack dab in the middle.

**10. Longing **

She thought the longing would dissipate once they broke the stalemate, but now that she has seen him in the first light of day, the yearning has doubled.

**11. Rival **

Though they (and especially he) do not know it, the handsome, lively--and emotionally available--suitors are competing for her heart with a dispirited, distant Tin Man.

**12. Style **

She does not have the heart to vocalize her hatred for the amount of overlaid tulle that the seamstresses are calling a dress, but then her sister walks in and doubles over laughing, and informs the world of her disdain for her.

**13. Fit **

She does not push for further definition of her relationship with him, because she knows the discomfort of forcing a square peg into a round hole, and wouldn't wish that on anyone else.

**14. Even **

When Azkadellia cries in her arms and asks when the torment will end, DG has few philosophical or soothingly deflective answers as she tries to calm her sister; in her final attempt, she says that even the Red Sox eventually overcame their eighty-six years of suffering, and breathes a sigh of relief when Az's tears turn to a confused chuckle.

**15. Serenity **

The fiery arguments and continual butting of heads should make the rest of them long for soothing silence, but instead, they are thankful for even the loudest of disagreements, because it reminds them they're all alive to fight in the first place.

**16. Lead **

She feels as though she is the miscast lead in a play she did not know she was starring in, and is withering beneath the unrelenting spotlight.

**17. Stress **

There is a telling hitch to his voice when he says, "You _will_ try to get out of there, right?" and the tension between the two rises to unparalleled levels.

**18. White **

His surroundings are blindingly bright, and he hopes for a moment that Adora has guided him to heaven--and then the wagon door opens, and Cain realizes he is still in hell.

**19. End **

When the Sorceress released her from the domed prison, hope had sparked within her chest--and then she saw the Emerald and her world once again collapsed around her.

**20. Snow **

He thanks Glitch with as much energy as he can muster, and is grateful the man had enough wits about him to save him from another cold, encompassing death.

**21. Bizarre **

She half expects Ashton Kutcher to leap out from behind one of the Milltown structures when her mother says they're robots; _that_ she could have handled.

**22. Window **

The north wind howls and the broken pieces of the picture window rattle in shivering protest; the sound is faint, but it is enough to fracture the deathly stillness of the palace post-battle.

**23. Buffer **

It was amusing at first to watch them argue; they would stand toe-to-toe, never flinching, pupils dilating, voices raised, and it was the ultimate battle of wills--and then their audience realized both could throw a mean punch, and quickly stepped in before anyone got hurt.

**24. Full **

She is sharp-tongued, full of shit, headache-inducing, and can have a flashpoint temper--and there is no one else he'd rather have on his side.

**25. Average **

She constantly repeats the protestations she said to her mother in her dream--"I'm a waitress and a part-time student"--and he wonders how in the world she could ever consider herself ordinary.

**26. Passion **

Until the day he dies, he thinks she was kidding when she told him that if he ever pulled rank on her again, a broken wrist would be the least of his problems; she wasn't.

**27. Rest **

Though they are all exhausted--she most of all--she refuses to enter the tents until she shakes the hands of each troop and offers heartfelt thanks for their service.

**28. Culture **

She is no Einstein, no Michelangelo, no Madame Curie--so how is she going to make a difference in the world?

**29. Mystic **

He stood guard many times while the Mystic Man met with the Queen, and even then, he remembers wondering where the youngest princess got so much damn energy.

**30. Stranded **

She thought getting her driver's license and motorcycle would lead to finally breaking the chains that bound her to this wearisome existence, but it only serves to show her just how trapped she is.

**31. Grave **

She has already noticed the small swell to her abdomen, and wonders if Jeb can see it from where he is as she tells him the news.

**32. Blue **

_Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious,_ she thinks, keeping a wholly fake smile plastered on her face while the Duke of Whatthefuckever simpers on, _I was aware just how blue my goddamn eyes are._

**33. Repent **

When she fell to her knees after DG emerged from the rebel camp, covered in someone else's blood, it was not because her world had just disintegrated beneath her feet; it was because she was pleading with the gods, promising she'd do better if they'd just return him to her.

**34. Wing **

She confides to him, as her head lays pillowed on his chest and his finger plays with a lock of her hair, that she feels as though she's living life only on a wing and a prayer, and he tells her it's more than some people had.

**35. Drip **

There is something unspeakably endearing about a Crown Princess who insists on fixing her own leaky faucet.

**36. Luminous **

Though she was dressed in the finest clothes and spectacular jewelry less than an hour ago, he finds her most beautiful when the moonbeams highlight her mismatched pajamas, bare feet and a messy, crooked ponytail.

**37. Spoon **

When his father stopped him from replacing the spoons with the sword, Jeb could not contain the cold disbelief that ran through him; whatever joy he may have felt at seeing him alive thundered away as he realized the man was still as good as dead if he didn't want to avenge his wife.

**38. Past **

Ashby is five the first time she asks how Ainsley and Jeb met, and her mother pretends it's too far past her bedtime to tell that story, because she cannot find her voice in the devastating hurt that accompanies his absence.

**39. Deceive **

She thinks her desperate sobs are hidden by her hands, her pillow or the door; they say nothing to her, but they stand outside her door until she quiets, always waiting for the moment she comes looking for them.

**40. Least **

She acts like his bringing her a cup of coffee is tantamount to granting her greatest wish, but it's the least he can do, seeing as she's saved his life a thousand times--and doesn't even realize it.

**41. Prestige **

Vy-Sor sold his soul and made dangerous allegiances to get where he was, and thought he was safe from Azkadellia's blind wrath--until he saw the unfiltered delight and raw power cross over the Sorceress's face when he presented her with the Emerald, and realized he was as doomed as the rest of the Zone.

**42. Front **

It becomes harder as the weeks go on to pretend they are just princess and Tin Man, only friends, and they both wonder why they thought they should hide their burgeoning relationship in the first place.

**43. Language **

It doesn't matter how bad of a day he's having; hearing her mutter curses that would make even the raunchiest of Resistance fighters blush never ceases to bring a smile to his face.

**44. Gear **

She used to listen to her iPod to rev her up, but since it is abandoned in Kansas--along with the tattered remnants of a normal existence--she is unsure how to convince herself she can do this, and then Cain comes in and wordlessly puts his hands on her shoulders, and she finally feels ready.

**45. Sparkle **

Sometimes, she wishes the Queen and Ahamo had been given the chance to talk to Emily and Hank, so they'd understand that her hatred of all things ornate is not something new.

**46. Answer **

She'd been chasing love and happiness so long that she didn't recognize it when it came to her in the form of a worn fedora and knowing blue eyes.

**47. Spirit**

Keeping this secret is starting to turn her inside out, and she feels as though she will be lost beneath the rubble when everything inevitably crumbles around her.

**48. Return **

He didn't actually think he could leave and she wouldn't chase after him, did he?

**49. Flash **

There is movement in their peripheral vision as they stand at the altar; two blonds and one brunette turn toward it, and see the fleeting but approving smiles of their loved ones from the afterlife.

**50. Clasp**

He tried not to notice how soft--or close--her bare skin was when she came into his room and begged for his help in fixing her stuck zipper; really, he did.


	27. Sentenced, Part Six

_Author's Notes: No, I don't ever shut up. Yes, you love me for it. Hope you all are still enjoying these. I know I've had fun writing them._

_Still not mine, still references to RBFOD/DLA 'verses. No Sox shoutouts this go 'round, though. I must be slipping._

_Thank you as always to the Trifecta of Terrificness: Alamo Girl, Meredith Paris and SpikesSweetie._

* * *

**01. Crave**

With as much ferocity as she'd once wished for a one-way ticket out of Kansas and into a life filled with indescribable excitement and adventure, she now craved normalcy twice as much.

**02. None **

She is straight-backed, finely dressed and looking like the very definition of regal; his heart breaks when there is no trace of the Other Sider who has rescued him a hundred times over.

**03. Glue **

When the Resistance fighter made the horse for his son, Ralph saw the weight of a lifetime of lies in the young man's eyes, and said a silent prayer for him.

**04. Wet **

They are standing outside, eyes flashing alongside the lightning and their voices are as low and warning as the thunder; both shake, but not because of the rain.

**05. Fame**

It may be impossible, given the size of the realm, for all of them to recognize her face--but they will certainly know her name.

**06. Instant **

He is waiting at the end of the processional--probably to catch her, especially if she keeps stepping on this godforsaken hem--but as she descends from the third step to the fourth, she sees a flash of something behind his eyes, and wonders if he's finally realized she's not just a "kid".

**07. Hold **

They have shared many things together: two beautiful daughters, laughs, fights, hugs, kisses, sunrises and sunsets, but when she finally tells him it's okay to let go, it feels like only a second has passed, and nothing will ever be long enough.

**08. Fish **

From the way Ashby expertly casts the line, Cain wonders if Jeb's not standing behind his daughter--just as father did to son--and helping her guide her hook toward the little pond.

**09. Don't **

His voice says "no" but his heart says "yes", and he is infinitely disappointed when she picks this to be the first time she's actually listened to him.

**10. Ego **

It is only when they are alone and after she's been heartily introduced to the Resistance Fighters' Secret Recipe that Az will admit to DG that her boobs looked _damn_ good as the Sorceress.

**11. Flow **

From the way they start and stop, always lurching and never progressing smoothly forward, you'd think they didn't need the other as much as they do.

**12. Dream **

Though he is exhausted and has not had a full night's rest since he was a much younger man, when the nightmares shift from seeing Adora on the ground to watching the princess fall, he avoids sleep altogether.

**13. Action **

Though she knows the saying to the contrary, DG keeps thinking this is a dress rehearsal, and she waits anxiously in the wings until someone yells "Action!"; only then will her life really begin.

**14. Enough **

She rests her head against the cool marble wall and wonders if she will ever be good enough.

**15. Green **

Ainsley doesn't even need to perform the pregnancy test the second time around; she remembers that nauseated look on DG's face quite well.

**16. Metaphor **

He has always preferred action to words; then again, he's never fallen in love with the Crown Princess and has no way to admit it to her--or to himself--other than via veiled comments.

**17. Teach **

Her father taught her to dream, Jeb taught her to love, DG taught her to trust and Cain taught her to believe again; Ainsley hopes she can do the same for Ashby.

**18. Demand **

When she tells him he must go, that there is no other choice--he _must_ leave, for all of their safety--he refuses to listen to his wife, but is forced to obey his Queen.

**19. Inspire **

Cain is glad DG and Glitch are kindred spirits in their enthusiasm; after she explains what a banana split is, Glitch grins and proclaims the concoction to be inspired, and the constant longing for home is momentarily gone from her eyes.

**20. Unrequited **

She knew trying to get close enough to act on her attraction to Jeb Cain would be difficult, but she'd figured it would be because of his devotion to the cause or his emotional unavailability--not because of the cell medic.

**21. Classic **

She has never been a classic beauty--with a crooked nose and in need of a sandwich or two-- but when he looks at her like _that_, she feels like the most gorgeous woman on either side.

**22. Far **

Though he knows she's just a few feet away, it feels like so much further.

**23. May **

The party celebrating their Queen's birthday is formal, filling the grand hall upstairs with waltzing, well-dressed men and women; the party for his "kiddo" is in the kitchen, with the birthday girl swiping her index finger through the icing of her cake and saucily offering him a taste.

**24. Breadth **

She has never felt such a maelstrom of emotions--anger, despair, shock--and feels as though she's drowning.

**25. Wrench **

She just _had _to come along and screw everything up--but did she?

**26. Hope **

Hope is the cruelest and most fair-weather of friends, shifting sides as easily as the wind blows; the iron maiden is manifestation of that fact.

**27. Scent **

Toto remembered her scent well--he _had_ chased after it for seven annuals of their lives, for Ozma's sake--and when he realized who she was as the Longcoats led her past, he found something he'd thought he'd lost among the discolored metal cell: faith.

**28. Pastel **

She is late for dinner with her family when she returns from her sojourn to the lake, and after she hurriedly asks if she looks okay, he unthinkingly rubs his thumb over her cheekbone, which is still smeared with the black charcoal she'd been drawing with.

**29. Artist **

She is content to sit and stare at beautiful things all day--her middle school tour group nearly left her in the National Gallery when they visited DC because she refused to move from her perch in front of the masterpieces--and though she knows it irks him to no end, she loves to gaze at Wyatt Cain just as much as she loved sitting before those paintings.

**30. Sorrow **

Though the maids have looked in every feasible (and some lesser likely candidates) corner of the tower, DG's locket from her "nurture units" is long gone, and if she weren't already devastated enough at their loss, that is the final nail in the coffin around her heart.

**31. Path **

What's so hard about saying, "Fate brought us together. This is where we're supposed to be. This is where we belong?"

**32. Wood **

Though he'd worried before about how the dense curtain of foliage blinded them to imminent attack from the Longcoats, now that he's jumped into…whatever this is…with Ainsley, Jeb is achingly aware of every broken branch and rustling of the leaves.

**33. Acceptance **

She goes through the stages of grief--denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance--and her heartbreak is horrifically piercing as she tries to live with the fact that Wyatt Cain just does not feel the same way.

**34. Yet **

She has tried to be patient and understanding, but with each passing day, "soon" gets further and further out of reach.

**35. Shiver **

As he peers into the Northern Palace with her, moisture from melting icicles falls from his hat brim and onto her neck, and for the first time, she curses the fedora being this close to her.

**36. Hero **

He does not want to be called a hero; in fact, all he'd ever wanted to be was a husband and a father--and he failed spectacularly on both counts.

**37. Body **

Her eyes are starting to cross as she tries to muddle past the introductory paragraph of whatever the hell piece of policy she's reading; she feels his hand move to the back of her neck, and he gently guides her until she's lying on her side, and his hand is in her hair as she reads.

**38. Man **

It perplexes her that she didn't notice the subtle shift in her perception of him: from dearly trusted friend to exceptionally hot _man_.

**39. Pretend **

He pretends it does not sting when instead of wishing him a safe journey with a pouncing, lingering hug, she extends her cool hand and icier tone.

**40. Curious **

Though Emily had fallen asleep a page before and Julia was fighting--and failing--to stay awake, DG kept her arms securely around her little girls as she read from Alice in Wonderland, and wondered if, from his watchful position leaning against the doorjamb, Cain had ever wondered about just how 'curiouser and curiouser' their existence together had been.

**41. Different **

She forces herself not to linger on what she could have done differently; if wishes were horses, she'd inevitably get trampled.

**42. Smooth **

When she wakes up in the medical ward, she wonders why everybody looks so relieved that it was a simple fracture; clean break or not, it hurts like a _bitch_.

**43. Right **

There _are _instances in life, she thinks, where wrong is very right--and this is one of them.

**44. Damn **

It must have been a special talent (from hell) that she could get a Jefferson Starship song she hadn't heard since childhood stuck in her head.

**45. Desire **

He tries to explain why he can't stay--why he can't be with her--and now the only thing she wants him to do is to shut the fuck up before she finds out just how many pieces she can shatter into.

**46. Ritual **

She defied her station by eschewing the big cathedral wedding with nobility and all the trimmings; the only thing she wanted was to see him waiting for her at the end of the aisle.

**47. Color **

No amount of afternoon walks in the gardens of Finaqua will make her any less pale or fragile, but seeing as it's the only time people other than her sister can seemingly stand to be in her presence, she'll walk the grounds as many times as she can.

**48. Visit **

They stare at each other for a long minute, the porch boards creaking beneath their weight, before the sunlight catches the tears in her eyes and she quietly demands to know why he left her behind; he answers that she was gone annuals ago.

**49. Belong **

She hates herself for fooling herself into believing she'd found home with him; now that he's gone, she realizes just how weak she is, and wonders when that happened.

**50. Bully**

When Glitch's hand beats hers, DG slams her cards on the table and cries, "Well, bully for you!", and her friend looks curiously at her, remarking, "I thought this was called a full house."


	28. We, the Jury

_Author's Notes: This piece was written for the Livejournal community tmchallenge. The challenge was to include the wallpaper quote._

_You have a major angst warning here, plus a character death. But no worries, I am uploading a happier oneshot to counterbalance this._

_Thank you to Alamo Girl and SpikesSweetie for the beta._

* * *

**We, the Jury**

There had been no trial, but there had still been an imposed sentence: solitary confinement.

There had been no jail, but she still had her cell--a ten by ten room over a noisy, foul-smelling garage on the outskirts of Central City. There was no barbed wire to keep her enclosed, but instead raging aqueducts on one side and the horrific deeds of her past on the other.

There had been no shackles, but there had still been restrictions on her liberties. Not in the interest of her own safety, but in fear that even across spans of time, distance and healing, she could--_would_--still impress fear and death with barely the briefest flicker of a perfectly manicured nail.

She had sought no pardon, offered no defense, because she had lost the right to protest the day she stopped fighting the Witch's invasion. She had not been cleared by the prison doctor to serve her sentence, because her victims had not been cleared by their physicians to die.

Only one person dared to speak out on her behalf. Only one person dared to break down doors in a frantic search for the sister she'd lost in the woods of Finaqua when they were children, and again after Azkadellia disappeared under the cover of a starless sky more than an annual before.

Only one person dared to hope she was alive. Only one person came rushing to her side when she fainted in front of the garage; weak, hopeless, teetering on the edge between life and death.

She'd locked herself away behind the misshapen door and squeaky hinges of her room above the garage. She'd cut and lightened her hair, taken on an alias, and ducked her chin to her chest when she did risk being outside, lest anyone be able to read the debilitating pain and guilty history in the darks of her eyes and identify her. She said few words to anyone; was so quiet that after her landlord's son had deposited her on the uncoiled, pointed springs of her mattress post-collapse, her landlady--not used to hearing Azkadellia talk unless she was spoken to first--had been forced to bend and ask her lodger to repeat her hoarsely whispered request.

One of the last she would ever make, because it was finally time.

DG arrived in the small room less than an hour later.

The youngest princess had nearly broken the door off its jamb in her haste to get across the threshold, and the toe of her riding boot got caught in one of the rusted nails as she rushed to her sister's bedside.

It hurt to force her eyes open, but she did so in the silence when DG did not take a seat in the unstable chair her landlord had placed next to the bed in the hope someone--anyone--would be alongside her tenant in the woman's final moments. As her eyes focused, Azkadellia saw her sister standing in front of the longest wall of the apartment, reaching out a shaking hand toward the covered panel.

It had taken the better part of six months--among multidirectional paths, quickly fading health, endlessly suffocating exhaustion--to gather the drawings, the photographs, the wanted posters. She'd tacked them up directly across from her bed; they were the first things she saw in the morning, the last things she saw at night. She saw the faces of the ghosts when she walked, when she bathed, when she ate and slept. She felt the weight of their deaths on her shoulder, pushing her toward her own grave reality. Her own hell.

They had been nameless and faceless. Their stories had been untold.

No more.

She'd been lucky that the Witch had wanted to keep their exposure low, and the vastness of the Zone had meant few truly knew what the Sorceress looked like. That lack of knowledge, along with the changes to her physical appearance, had meant Azkadellia had been able to go door-to-door seeking the survivors of her reign of fury. She'd listened to their anger at their losses, their wistfulness at days gone by and never again to be had, and she'd promised each and every family that their loved ones would not be forgotten.

It became her life mission; provide healing instead of destruction.

Before she'd turned them into ghosts, the people on her wall had made their sacrifices; had left their families, the comforts of home. She would honor them by doing the same. By never forgetting. By never looking forward without knowing about that which doggedly followed her like a shadow.

She was starting to feel lightheaded from lack of oxygen, and Azkadellia couldn't stop her eyes from sliding exhaustedly shut. She jumped when DG finally pierced the silence with her pain stricken voice. "What is this?"

She tried to fight through the dense fog of exhaustion for a coherent response. "A reminder."

"Of what?"

"Of who I am."

"No."

She forced her eyes open again, blinded momentarily by dizzying, nauseating stars. DG was still staring at the covered wall, never looking at her sister as she replied. "Yes."

"This isn't you, Az. It never was."

She wheezed her reply. "I don't want to talk about this. I just wanted to see you."

A pause. "They say you're sick."

"I am. I have been for a long time; in more ways than one."

"Stop _saying _that!" There was a burst of furious activity as the youngest princess reached out and started ripping at the papered wall, angrily tearing the sheaths of paper from the panels. She ripped them into a thousand pieces, and Az's chest clenched again, like it had on the street outside, but this time, it was not because of a failing heart or low lung capacity. DG was destroying her one chance at redemption.

She found enough energy to call out. "No! Stop!"

DG turned halfway, finally facing her, eyes wide. Scared. Just as the rest of the Zone had been for so long. "Either this…wallpaper goes, or I do!"

"That's not why I asked for you, DG. You can't fix that. I don't want you to."

DG rubbed at her face, tapping her index finger impatiently against her mouth. "Why didn't you tell me where you were? I've been looking for you. I've been _worried_ about you."

"It doesn't matter now, DG."

"The hell it doesn't!" DG's lower lip started to tremble, and Azkadellia heard the creak of both the floor and the chair as DG finally crossed the small space and sat down next to her. Taking her sister's clammy hand within her own, DG's voice was softly broken when she spoke. "Oh, Az, what have you done?"

_That's the question to end all questions, little sister._

Az's answer was hoarse, feeble, tired. "I'm being punished for crimes against humanity."

DG turned Az's fingers over within her own, rubbing them furiously, not seeming to hear her sister's reply. "You're so cold. I can't feel your magic."

"I haven't used it since I left."

"Is that why you're sick?"

Az nodded, feathers from her pillow poking through the case and pricking her neck. "It sustained the Witch; it was her--_our_--life force. It took a lot of power to destroy her. And what was left faded away."

"Then you've got to take some of mine. You've got to fight."

_I've already been sentenced, little sister. Nothing more to fight._ Azkadellia's hand began to burn as DG tried to flood her body with healing, and she hastily pulled it from her sister's grasp. The glow faded into nothingness alongside her will to live.

She shifted uncomfortably against the bed. "I want you to promise me something, DG."

"No."

The eldest princess couldn't muster enough energy to raise even one eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"I know what you're doing. I won't let you go."

"This isn't your choice, DG. It's mine. For the first time in a very long while, I have my free will back. This is what I want."

"You're choosing to die?" Stubbornly, DG shook her head. "No. I won't let you. I promised you I'd never let go again. I'm keeping my word."

Az smiled softly, sadly. "You can't hold on if I pull away."

"Let me help you. Let me get you a doctor."

"I'm beyond that now, DG. I just wanted to see you before…"

"You planned this from the day you left." It wasn't a question, so Azkadellia did not answer. "Killing yourself won't bring them back."

"I know that." Tears started to blur the vision of her sister's angelic face. "That's why I want you to promise me you'll continue my work. Remember them, comfort them, as much as you want to remember and comfort me."

She was so tired, so sore, so ready to succumb. But she reached out and found DG's hand in the darkness, the last earthly tether as she started to slip away. "Promise me, DG. Please."

She felt DG's fingers brush along her forehead, heard the shaky, weighted intake of breath. "You can rest now, Az. I'll take it from here. I promise."

Azkadellia exhaled deeply, cleanly, freely for the first time in annuals. She saw the army of ghosts that had been her constant companions, that had haunted her as much as she'd haunted them, nodding their approval--their thanks--as she slid silently, relieved, into the ether.

There had been no judge, no jury, but there had still been an executioner.

FIN


	29. A Place To Land

_Author's Notes: I'm heading out on "the boat that floats" (a Mediterranean cruise) for the next two and a half weeks, so y'all won't have to deal with my silliness for a while. :) This is my entry for the Fall Picture prompt at tmchallenge--it's a shot of purple siding and a green shutter. Much lighter than "We, the Jury," I promise._

_And, just a disclaimer: I can't draw a straight line, even with a ruler and help, so if the "artsy" part of this seems slightly off, that's why._

* * *

Life in the O.Z. inched forward at a snail's pace after the Eclipse. The sunshine that revealed itself after the moons departed blinded those who dared look to the sky, making them retreat back into the comfort of the long-encompassing shadows.

Slowly, however, they emerged from their hiding spots, bracing themselves and holding their breath for the potential fallout. But it seemed the Zone was as desperate for a peaceful reprieve as her citizens, and eventually, they all relaxed beneath the knowledge that they'd bested the darkness. Though many initially stumbled on unsteady feet, they were determined to find their footing from days long forgotten.

With the return of many displaced citizens, the shops in Central City slowly began to reopen. With butter and sugar no longer rationed, Carmichael's Bakery was among the first to remove the misshapen wood barriers blocking its front door, and the smell of pastries floated intoxicatingly around passersby.

The bell against Weston's front door chimed merrily as children darted in and out of the ice cream parlor, and though his father was no longer around to see it reopen, Mr. McBride's son returned to the tailor shop that had been in his family for generations. Children were again able to walk the streets as exuberant youth, not weapons carriers or spies for an enemy that had been alive longer than they had.

New stores replaced those that would never return. The smell of new, colorful coats on long dilapidated buildings mixed with the invigorating scent of baked goods; the sounds of painters creating a work of art made of rusted metal harmonized with carefree, jubilant laughter and conversation.

The streets filled with familiar strangers; though many had kept to themselves the past fifteen annuals, they were all related in their common purpose: to find jobs, to find friends, to find a safe place to land. To live again.

A few months after the fall of the Sorceress, on a corner lot surrounded by freshly laid cobblestone and newly planted flowers, Andy Cooper fulfilled his beloved sister's final wish when he unlocked the art studio for the first time.

The intense daylight illuminated the mismatched paint job Andy had completed just a few days before. He still couldn't believe he'd actually allowed his nieces to choose the colors for the store; then again, those girls could get pretty much anything out of him with just a tilt of their head and a gap-toothed grin. He knew he was a goner when Paige patiently explained her choice for the storefront--"Purple," she'd said, "so Mommy can see it, no matter where she is." Lily had chosen green for the shutters and signage, leaving Andy to wonder if he'd ever make any money in a store that looked like the embodiment of a bruise.

He was surprised when the door opened just a few minutes after he'd unlocked it, but hid his amazement behind a welcoming smile, bidding the customer good morning. She seemed a few annuals younger than he, with dark hair and wide eyes that looked as though she'd just walked into heaven.

He smiled when she lovingly caressed the natural fibers of the few brushes he'd been able to acquire. Her fingers danced across the top of the blank, mounted canvases he'd stacked beneath the shelves holding unpainted pottery and different acrylic and oil based paints. Perhaps he was reading too much into it, but there seemed to be a relaxed air about her as she browsed, as though walking into his shop had relieved her of her shouldered burdens.

They both turned when the door opened again, and if the woman had looked thrilled to have found his out-of-the-way store, the man that entered was the complete antithesis of her serenity. His face and jaw were taut in their rigidity, and Andy worried the man's flexing hand might find its way to the woman's cheek. He moved from behind the register, prepared to step in between the two, even if the man was twice his size.

But the man merely crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows in a silent question. The woman sighed before responding. "I just needed a minute. Just one _second_ by myself."

The man seemed to soften at her defeated tone. "I understand that," he said quietly, and Andy was surprised at the sudden change in his tone and stature. "But you've got to _tell_ me first. That's all."

She nodded and turned her wistful gaze back to the art supplies while her companion kept scanning the scenes playing beyond the storefront windows. His hand remained steadfast on his hip; what he was holding tightly to was blocked by the length of his coat. He seemed anxious to depart, but let the woman browse in her own time.

Her own steps were lingering, her gaze longing. Her fingers flexed against her thighs, as though she were forcibly stopping herself from diving headlong into the paints and never coming up for air. Finally, Andy approached her.

"See anything you like, miss?"

"Your color choices are gorgeous."

"Thank you. Did you want to try some out?"

She shook her head slowly. "No." She looked toward the man, and Andy saw the shared flash of pain that flickered behind their blue eyes. "Thank you, but I have to be on my way."

The man turned to the woman, full attention drawn from the street outside and focused back on the brunette. "If you want to stay, kiddo, we can."

"I should get back to A…we should get back home," she corrected, and Andy saw her shoot a cautiously surreptitious look his way. Turning back to the shopkeeper, she tried to force a bright smile to her face. "Good luck with the store."

His "thank you" hit the glass of the front door before it reached her ears as she hastily left, the blond man hot on her heels.

Andy saw her a few times over the next few weeks, looking regretful every time she passed the store but did not enter. But he always greeted her with a smile and a wave, and was genuinely happy when she entered the store again just after opening.

"Good morning," he greeted, scrubbing at the dried paint Lily had left on the register after completing one of her finger paintings the day before.

"Good morning," she answered in a rush, and Andy was amused to see just how much the delighted anticipation in her eyes rivaled those of his nieces at their most excited. "I was wondering if your offer from earlier was still a valid one."

"Of course," Andy replied, joining her in the center of the shop. "Choose whatever materials you want. I'll get you an easel."

When he returned from the storage room, she was seated at a round table, a line of vibrant paints set neatly in front of her. He set the stand up for her as she turned her chair to face him, and heard the grand, enthralling swish of the canvas as she rested it against the wood of the bracket.

She was already elbow deep in her work, her tongue peeking out from the corner of her mouth as she concentrated, when the man walked in the store. He carried two cups of coffee in his hands, and Andy could see today's newspaper secured under his arm. The owner returned the man's nod as he put one of the coffees in front of the brunette. Then, without a word, he sat down in the chair opposite her, crossed his ankle over his knee, and let her paint.

Her strokes were broad, sweeping. Her color choices were almost poignant in their vibrancy; she'd chosen the brightest shades of yellow, orange and red that the store carried. There was a thrilling excitement to how quickly she painted, as though her mind was racing so quickly with the possibilities that her hand could barely keep up. She sat close to her work; in such proximity that Andy wondered whether or not she was trying to disappear completely into the painting.

Her exuberant enthusiasm was infectious, and Andy--not to mention the man that accompanied her--couldn't seem to look away. She wove her tapestry for close to an hour before the blond man folded his paper and looked sorrowfully at her, addressing her gently. "We have to get going."

She sighed, brushing errant curls out of her face and streaking a faint band of yellow along her forehead in the process. "Okay." She rose and started to clean up the brushes, but Andy stopped her. "I'll do that," he offered.

She shook her head instantaneously. "No, that's not necessary."

Andy smiled and lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Don't have much else going on, miss. It's no bother."

She smiled and nodded, wiping her hands on her denim dungarees. "Thank you so much, Mister…"

"Andy. Just Andy. And you're welcome."

"Andy," she confirmed. "I can't tell you how much I enjoyed this. Or how much I needed it."

"Come back anytime. I'll keep this in a safe place so you can work on it later."

She shook her head again. "Oh, no, that's all right. I was just remembering what it felt like."

He walked from his perch behind the counter, and took a longer look at her painting. "This is quite impressive," he noted, looking at the effortlessly blended stripes of color. "It'd be a shame to just dispose of it."

"I don't need it," she said, capping the paints she'd used. "Not much use for it here."

"If you're sure," Andy answered, and she nodded again. He could see the weariness etched in to the lines of her porcelain skin as she started to replace the bottles back on the shelves behind her; any carefree jubilance she'd had while working had retreated and dissipated into the intensity of the morning sunlight outside.

"Thank you," she repeated after she was finished. "Thank you so much." She left with the blond man hot on her heels, his hand brushing against her waist.

They came into the shop two or three times a week, always just after opening, when the city was at its quietest. She'd started insisting she pay for the studio time and supplies, and though Andy was happy to let her be--sensing she needed this escapism as much as the rest of the world needed breath--the blond man, whom he'd overheard her call Cain, had informed him that trying to talk her out of something was about as likely as mobats becoming the official pet of the Zone.

Andy never did learn her real name--Cain always seemed to refer to her only as "kiddo," "princess" or "sweetheart," and she never corrected him.

He was surprised when she came in one morning without a smile on her face or cheerfulness in her eyes, but was more stunned when her constant shadow did not follow with breakfast and coffee a few minutes after her arrival. Silently, she set up her workspace, and he became concerned when she reached for the darker colors of the spectrum: stormy grey, disillusioned blue, resentful green. She held her brush tightly, in a vice-like grip, and her face was hard as stone as she jabbed angrily at the canvas.

Was this truly the same woman who, just weeks before, had been so vivacious, so hopeful? The differences were so drastic that Andy idly wondered whether or not his best customer had an identical twin.

The clock chimed the hour, and Andy left the center of the store to attend to the kiln and fired pottery. He was surprised to hear two voices as he carefully lifted the pieces and set them aside to cool; he hadn't heard the front door open in his absence.

Making his way back to the front, he saw Lily, still clad in her pajamas and with her safety blanket trailing behind her, standing next to DG, head cocked inquisitively.

Hurrying his steps, Andy placed a hand on top of the little girl's head. "Lily, you're supposed to be in bed," he admonished. "Not bothering people."

She looked up at him, and her reply was thick from her stuffy nose and head cold. "I bus just seeing but she bus bainting, buncle Andy." She tugged on his shirt tail. "Bobby used to baint like dis ben she was sad." Lily looked at the brunette, eyes large in worry. "Are dou sad?"

"Lily," Andy warned, turning the girl away. "Go back to bed. I'll bring you some soup in a minute."

But his patron merely leaned back against her chair, eyeing her work with a sigh. "I guess it is kind of…broody, isn't it?"

Lily nodded, though Andy was certain she had no idea what the word meant. His niece put a hand on the painter's arm, sniffling loudly. "Bobby used to tay dat it helps to dalk it out."

The brunette looked up at Andy. "Bobby?"

"My sister," Andy clarified. "Died a few annuals ago."

"Oh." She glanced to Lily as she interpreted "bobby" to be "mommy." "I'm very sorry to hear that."

"She's wid da angels," the little girl informed her. "She bakes da sky betty in da bornig."

"Well, then, she's very talented. She uses some of my favorite colors."

Lily looked confused and pointed to the dark painting. "Den why are you dusing dose?" She placed a chubby hand over the woman's heart. "Does it hurt here? Dat's where it hurt ben Bobby bent to heaben."

Tears shone in the blue of the painter's eyes, and Andy found it more disconcerting than her angry mixture of riled colors on the canvas. "Yes, that's where it hurts," she replied in a half whisper, looking down at her dirtied hands.

Lily held up her faded pink blanket. "Dis albays bakes me beel better."

The brunette smiled genuinely, though the gesture seemed to be both hurtful and awkward to her. "Well, thank you very much, Lily. I appreciate that. But I think you should hold on to that. It's safer that way."

"All right, Lil, that's enough. Let's go," Andy said, but his stubborn niece shook her head.

"Be need to bake a betty bainting," she insisted. "Be _have_ to."

"You need to go back to bed," he corrected, stopping when his patron interrupted.

"You know what, Lily?" she said, standing and moving the darkened canvas to the seat opposite her workspace, "I think you're right. We do need a pretty painting. Would you like to help me?"

Lily nodded so fervently that she made herself sneeze.

Andy felt an odd sense of relief when Cain finally entered the store, though it took the owner a moment to realize it was him, for he'd never seen the man lit by the dusky moonlight before. The brunette had stayed at her easel all day, with Lily perched securely on her lap, paint brush in one hand, blanket in the other. The two dark-headed girls had spoken quietly throughout the afternoon, seemingly kindred spirits as they dotted out a new beginning.

Lily had started to fall asleep a few minutes before Cain arrived, so the brunette could not rise to greet him, arms full of drowsy four-annual-old.

Andy looked away as Cain and his "princess" had an intense silent conversation, one pair of blue eyes calling out across a seemingly great divide to be heard above the thunderous storm. The blond man strode purposefully across the store after the painter dropped her chin in acceptance, and gathered her in his arms, murmuring words Andy was sure even Lily wouldn't be able to hear, for they were meant for one recipient alone. Cain pressed a kiss to the brunette's temple, and she curled into him, the hand not holding on to Lily dropping the paintbrush and fisting it around the faded leather of his duster.

Turning her head, Cain kissed her gently before resting his forehead against hers. From his angle, Andy could see both of them apologize.

Lily interrupted the moment by turning in the artist's embrace, sleepily snuggling her face against the woman's collarbone. The desperation that had colored Cain's face when he entered the store softened into something between admiration and reverence as his hand found the patron's, and hers found its way to Lily's hair.

He helped her stand, and she looked to Andy, asking in a gentle whisper, "You want me to put her down?"

Andy shook his head. "That's okay. I'll take her." He eased Lily into his arms, smiling when she huffed her annoyance at being moved from her comfortable position.

"Good night, Lily," the brunette whispered, placing a light kiss on the girl's forehead. "Sweet dreams."

When Andy returned from tucking Lily in, his two patrons were long gone, and there was a stack of money by the register. He shook his head and moved to the easel to gather the brushes for washing.

The third painting his patron had done was a simple scene, and Andy had to smile.

A tall, blond man and a smaller brunette woman, walking hand in hand along a lusciously landscaped path, their backs to the viewer, protecting the sanctity of their relationship from the world.

Somehow, though he couldn't see it, Andy just knew the subjects were smiling.

FIN


	30. Balance of Power

_A/N: This is the non-angsty entry for the "wallpaper" quote challenge over on the LJ Community TM Challenge (the same one that inspired "We, the Jury.") Somehow, inexplicably, this piece won first place. I hope you enjoy it as well._

_This is for my own "Team Intervention" (tm ErinM), without whom I'd be lost...Alamo Girl, SpikesSweetie and Meredith Paris._

* * *

DG had always defied description or explanation. She'd never meshed with her peers at school, as she was more apt to have cheeks highlighted by motorcycle grease instead of the socially acceptable and expertly applied shades of "spring" and "winter" of her female classmates. The boys were no better to deal with, given her superior ability to both dissect the state of the Chiefs' running game and gun them out from behind home plate as they tried to steal second base on her.

Like any teenager, she'd wanted to fit in, had wanted to know her place in the world. But she'd slowly realized, as she looked to the horizon each morning, that there were innumerable shades of nature's palette to be explored beyond monotonous wheat fields. There were countless parts of _herself _to be unearthed, nurtured, changed. Who she was to become would be an answer given only in time, and only when she could figure out how to get there from here.

Obviously, she hadn't expected _there_ to beliterally across the rainbow, a completely different world. But her travels were a sign--an obvious one--and she'd thought that her arrival in the O.Z. would eventually lead to the discovery of the path and future she'd been seeking on the Other Side.

At first, it had seemed like divine intervention. The weighted definitions and categorizations she'd so lacked in Kansas fell onto her shoulders just as heavily as she'd landed in the Zone. Friend, sister, princess, savior; apparently _this_ was the person and place she'd been meant to be. _This _was the life she was meant to lead.

She'd been excitedly anxious to take on the long-sought roles, and tried to do so in stride. She supposedly had a purpose now, direction. She dutifully attended magic lessons with Tutor and tea times with her mother, learning about her lineage and the history of the O.Z. She tried to cast aside the elements of her personality that had gotten her so in trouble before, segregated in her other life; they hadn't worked there, and they definitely did not fit in under the new guise of _Princess DG_--her stubbornness, her short fused temper, her witty but piercing snark.

She tried to hide that she preferred to work and wander barefoot about the palace. She tried to hide that she snuck away from state functions after her family's embarrassingly long introductions and exchanged her heels for her pair of Converse, hiding the sneakers beneath the length of her dress. She tried to hide the fact that she made her own coffee and breakfast in the morning, finding more comfort and acceptance in the kitchen than anywhere else in the entirety of the Zone.

She tried to hide that she had a tendency to swing her feet in a endlessly looping pendulum motion, inevitably crushing and bruising her toes against the unforgiving military boots of the delegates seated around her. She tried to hide that the black and white toile wallpaper in the conference room was light years more interesting than the meetings happening within its walls, and she likened the coverings to an endless Rorschach test, different patterns emerging depending on where and when the sunlight hit the pattern. She tried to hide that instead of taking notes of the proposed trade routes to the east (or was it west here? She could never remember), she was writing down her observations and armchair psychiatric diagnosis on what she saw--and why--hidden in the hangings.

She hid the fact that she'd created Ozian flash cards, not trusting herself to remember all the minutia of policy and court members. She hid the fact that she didn't trust herself, period.

She hid the fact that she mentally ran through the scene in "Pretty Woman" about the placement of forks so she didn't embarrass her family at state functions. She hid the fact that when she was dancing to a sweeping, orchestral score, Bon Jovi and Fleetwood Mac had a tendency to enter her brain, and her polite smile would tighten into a thin line as she fought from singing the words. She hid the fact that at the end of those functions, she'd slip quickly back to her room before her sister, mother or chamber maids joined her, so she could belt out the saga of Tommy and Gina without an audience and a reprimand that princesses did not have a t-shirt that read _Slippery When Wet. _

She tried to hide her disgust at some of the Zone residents when their accusing stares and disparaging remarks followed her and Azkadellia down the roads of Central City. She wasn't concerned with what they said about her, but some of those jerks needed a good knee to the groin for what they said about Az. But her mother had said the Zone needed to heal in its own time, in its own way, and had thought it best not to tell about the existence of the Witch just yet, for fear it would be seen only as a ploy for sympathy or a dismissive excuse for the annuals of heartbreak.

She tried to hide the fact that, eventually, she missed having no expectations, no definitions. She tried to hide the fact that it pained her to remain silent and stifled within the confines of friend/sister/princess/savior. She tried to hide the fact that she felt like a failure again; she finally had her path, but wanted desperately to deviate from it.

She tried to hide the fact that she felt as though the DG that had survived for twenty-three years in Kansas died the minute she'd landed in the O.Z. and taken on her quest.

She didn't do as well on hiding the last part.

She was sitting in the kitchen at half past five in the morning, humming "Livin' on a Prayer," feet swinging between the legs of her stool and the kitchen counter, eating eggs and toast when The Intervention happened.

DG noticeably jumped when her sister sat down next to her, primly interlocking her fingers and regarding her seriously. Cain sat on DG's left, and Raw and Glitch took up positions on either side of the princess and the Tin Man.

Swallowing her coffee quickly and wincing as it singed its way down her throat, DG asked hoarsely, "What's up, guys?"

Glitch yawned. "Besides me? Just the moons."

Cain gave him a warning look and then nodded to Azkadellia, who took DG's hand. "We're worried about you, little sister."

DG's brows furrowed. "Worried? Why?"

Az sighed. "When you first came to the Zone, you stood up to everything that threatened your path. You were a fighter. Emotional, fearless, feisty. Lately, you've been…passive. You're just going through the motions."

DG's jaw ached from how wide her mouth was open in its shock, and she couldn't make the muscles move well enough for her reply to be little more than a stutter. "I'm just doing what I thought you wanted; what you _needed_. I was trying to make everything easier on you. You needed a good sister, a competent princess. That's what I was trying to give you."

Cain put a hand on her arm. "We like your imperfections, kiddo. Hell, if it wasn't for your ability to run blindly into situations most rational people would avoid, I'd still be trapped. We all would."

She pulled her arm sharply away from his grip. "If not for my ability to run blindly into things, Az never would have been possessed."

Az's hand was soft on hers. "Deege--"

"No. There is a time to fight. This isn't it. The Zone needs to get back to where we were before the Witch. We need to heal."

"Kiddo, that tornado brought _you_ here. You, DG--the mechanic, the farm girl, the waitress. Someone who has flaws, has failures, and who's learned from them. _That's_ what the Zone needs. No offense to your family," Cain shot a look at Az, who nodded and smiled encouragingly, "but I think we could use a breath of fresh air around here."

Glitch nodded. "The greatest discoveries have happened because of a new, unfiltered perspective."

Raw reached down the counter and put a hand on DG's. "DG strong enough. DG good enough just the way she is."

She looked down at her hands, vision unexpectedly blurred. "I don't want to fail again." She sniffled and looked up. "I don't want to make it worse."

Az squeezed her hands. "Deege, the only way you can fail is if you keep hiding the things that make you so special. You have experiences none of us can dream about. Your differences make you unique, and we _need_ something different now. Something that doesn't remind us of the past fifteen annuals. You're it."

"I'm the _reason_ for the past fifteen annuals."

"They may make up who we are, Deege, but they don't make up who _you_ are. Find that crazy stick-wielding girl again. Introduce _her_ to the Zone. I promise you we'll all be better for it."

Cain's fingers wrapped gently around her wrist again. "All of us," he motioned to The Intervention Team, "saw who you really are, Princess, and we love you for it. We trust you. The Zone will, as well. You haven't lost your voice. Use it."

"You do realize you're temping fate. A crazy Other Sider let loose…"

"Think of the possibilities!" Glitch interjected enthusiastically.

"A little temptation never hurt anyone." Cain squeezed her arm and the four left DG to her abandoned breakfast, her stomach in knots as she worked through her friends' words.

They'd guided her back to the place where she'd started in Kansas so long ago--defying explanation and description. But now they were not things to be afraid of; they were things to embrace. She'd always thought that which she'd been seeking was out _there_, out in the world, beyond her grasp. It turned out it had been within her the whole time.

She rose like a phoenix from the ashes of hesitancy, of fear. She started to fly, to be free again, started to sing and traverse barefoot through the hallways. She started to speak up on behalf of herself--the true, stubborn, articulate and vocal DG, momentarily lost but never forgotten by those who truly mattered.

She argued with council members, and "accidentally" kicked one of Az's main detractors in the crotch when he got too derogatory. She made herself heard, and slowly earned the respect of both counselors and citizens. She was again striving to become the best friend/sister/princess/savior possible, but this time, on _her_ terms.

She also started to realize that the distracting Rorschach test only gave her headaches when she had actual _work_ to do.

Her first decree as Royal Representative of the House of Gale was made at half past nine on a Tuesday, to thunderous applause. "Okay, that's it. Either this wallpaper goes, or I do!"

FIN


	31. Sentenced, Part Seven

_Author's Notes: Bongiorno all! I'm back from the Boat That Floats (tm Beebo), and I know you all missed me insanely while I was gone. Oh, stop laughing and let me have fun with my delusions._

_At any rate, I have a bunch of things to post for this collection, so pardon the spam over the next few days. _

_Same deal as before--the timelines are all over the place, including pre- and during the series, and there are a couple of RBFOD 'verse references included in here as well. Thank you, as always, to Alamo Girl and SpikesSweetie for the beta, Meredith Paris for the inspiration, the LJ community 1fandom for the prompts, and to all of you for reading!_

_This is dedicated to Alexandra3, who gave me two insanely wonderful chapters of "Coronation," and who rules at life so much that I think I should just cap my own pen and let her tell all the stories from now on._

* * *

**01. Heavy**

The night is heavy around her, and the thickness nearly chokes away what little life she has left.

**02. Slip **

There really was no dignified way to rid herself of the wedgie currently impeding her ability to walk like a normal person.

**03. Uphold **

She was so used to him being made of unbendable, steely will that when he finally faltered, she could not catch him in time.

**04. Magic **

Was it bad that she spent her entire first lesson with Tutor with the Lovin' Spoonful's "Do You Believe In Magic" running an endless loop through her head?

**05. Hurry **

They both know their first time should be languid, exploratory, filled with awe and whispers--but there will be plenty of time for that later.

**06. Hole **

If she could find a shovel and a plot of land big enough, she'd dig halfway back to the Other Side just so they could bury that godforsaken iron maiden--and their pasts.

**07. Music **

The orchestra's music is flowing as soothingly and effortlessly as the wine, but the only thing he can hear is his nervous, pounding heartbeat, which deafens him while they dance.

**08. Inside **

He'd never once told Adora to get back inside and hide, even when the Longcoats came to take them; when they dragged her out by her hair, she'd been two steps from the gun cabinet and reaching for a shotgun.

**09. Later **

They never exchange anything more than a wink or a smile when they pass each other in the palace hallways, saving the soothing backrubs and kisses to the top of her head for later, when reality cannot break through and ruin the moment.

**10. One **

He's not sure what to think when he realizes his second chance--the one he never thought he'd have; the notion he thought was nothing more than a fool's lullaby--is sitting across from him, slathering grape jelly on her toast and asking her sister to pass the coffee.

**11. World **

She does an astonishingly good job at keeping her face expressionless--masterfully hiding the fact that her world is imploding around her, slipping like grains of sand from between her fingers--when he gently tells her he doesn't feel the same way.

**12. Cheat **

He feels violently ill the first time he notices DG is no longer a stick-wielding kid but an honest-to-Ozma _woman_--and it's not from the weight of the whiskey in his stomach, but instead the pressing of the wedding ring onto his hand.

**13. Pink **

There were no flowers, no poetic declarations at sunset on the lake--but there _were_ guiding hands at the small of the back, lent (or stolen, depending on your definition) fedoras, and knowing, trusting smiles meant only for one recipient.

**14. Love **

If _this _is love, she wonders what pure hatred feels like.

**15. Eat **

Adora feels useful--and hopeful--for the first time in annuals when she presses a plate into her son's hands and directs him to the falls in search of their wayward medic.

**16. Stone **

She is rigid in her fear, and stops short of the entry to the grand hall, wondering if they can see through her so-called stony façade as it starts to crack.

**17. Boss **

The trick to making a relationship last, the two girls agree, is to make them _think_ they're in charge.

**18. Feather **

He keeps his touch feather-light as he traces down her lightly freckled skin, wondering how she can be so soft in sleep and so hard in the sunlight.

**19. Here **

He angrily asks what she wants of him, but he's already gone by the time she whispers her answer: "Be here."

**20. Now **

Raw is blindsided by the abrupt shift in DG's emotions after they jump out from their hiding spot to beat the "Longcoats" over the head with a wrench; first, she was terrified in her anticipation, and now the overwhelming relief and something deeper--something he hasn't felt in a long time--makes his eyes water in its intensity.

**21. Parent **

He has to turn away to hide his flinch after she bitingly tells him she's got four parents; she doesn't need him to be a fifth.

**22. Free **

It didn't matter that she was exposed on the balcony and facing down an innumerable number of angry soldiers and weapons packed with gunpowder; calling out for a cease-fire was the freest she'd felt in a long time.

**23. Whimsy **

Love was a whimsical, overly sentimental notion created by Hallmark and Godiva in celebration of Valentine's Day--until she saw those eyes looking back at her, and then she knew it was an inalienable truth.

**24. Worry **

Had she not been focusing all her energy into fighting her captor as he escaped with her from the darkened bar, she would have been frightened by the noticeable terror in Cain's voice as she disappeared.

**25. Star **

They had no way of knowing it, but when they were children, they both picked the same star to wish on at night--the one at the edge of the sky, the one that did not twinkle quite as brightly as its brothers and sisters; they both understood that longing and separation.

**26. Way **

She is relieved when Glitch never picks the correct way to go; at least someone else in this special hell feels as lost as she does.

**27. Dish **

Ainsley does not--and will _never_--understand how the rest of the women in the camp think Jeb Cain is adorable; do they not see what an arrogant _bastard_ he is?

**28. Pride **

She is shaken by how, despite all the accolades, pats on the back and praise on a job well done, it is only when she sees his half-smile and nod that she feels as though she's succeeded.

**29. Build **

Though she knows it is a futile attempt, Azkadellia takes a chisel to the bricks of the Sorceress' tower; the reminder must be destroyed before she is.

**30. Expelled **

She wishes there was an emotional charcoal to rid her system of her feelings for him; it would be appropriate, seeing as she finds herself addicted to him.

**31. Perfect **

She keeps whispering inappropriate things to her sister to see how long it will take for the other woman to crack under the pressure; when the half-suppressed giggles finally become an uncontrollable laughing fit in the middle of a droning, monotonous speech, it is the perfect reminder that things are definitely not what they once were in the O.Z.

**32. Night **

She needs to decompress at the end of each day, and escapes to whatever open space she can find--the roof in Central City or the gazebo in Finaqua--and he brings a blanket and silent, stalwart companionship, always holding her hand but saying nothing.

**33. Lost **

There are days when she feels like both Azkadellia _and_ the Sorceress, and is lost in the shade of grey in between the two.

**34. Time **

There is no time to program the robots to understand DG hates peas and will get into _everything_ if given the chance; in the moment before the travel storm touches down, Lavender just hopes her mechanics have made them easily reprogrammable.

**35. Evil **

He knew _exactly_ what rubbing his thumb gently over the pressure point on her wrist did to her--and he didn't care.

**36. Today **

Until he's gone, she hadn't realized just how much she'd worried about tomorrow and forgotten to live for today.

**37. Crack **

She knows she is too broken to ever be fixed, but wonders if anyone would even volunteer for the job.

**38. Quit **

She never thought she'd see the day when he gave up, and wondered what other delusions she'd fooled herself into believing.

**39. Play **

At the beginning, the small palace staff had agreed to play baseball with the princesses only because they were conditioned to cater to the girls' royal requests; by the third game, however, they participated because the competitive cooks would _not_ be denied victory again by a bunch of maids.

**40. Nut **

He rolls his eyes and calls her crazy; she curses not-so-quietly and calls him mind-bendingly stubborn--and then she passes the bread.

**41. Down **

They should have known what they were in for the minute DG said her first word--"down"--and then wandered off in search of adventure without them.

**42. Ready **

He does not ask Ainsley if she's ready to go to the funeral, because he knows neither of them will ever be able to prepare themselves for what's to come.

**43. Slow **

Even the slowest simmering pot eventually boils over; however, it is an inevitability he does not know how to prepare himself for.

**44. Animal **

The girl's screaming is giving her a headache, and the Sorceress wonders why the little twit cares so much about an insignificant animal; he's just doing what he was created for--to do her bidding.

**45. Teen **

It feels as though that when she went to bed, her daughter was a baby, and when the morning comes, the girl is sixteen and itching to break free and discover the world on her own.

**46. Burn **

She knows it is not magic that makes her fingers burn when he touches them, because he has no supernatural abilities, so what else could it be?

**47. Tie **

She sometimes wishes her Little League games hadn't always ended "in a tie," because perhaps the pain of failure would be easier to digest if she'd been exposed to it at an earlier age.

**48. Blast **

She really should watch what she says around Glitch; when she sarcastically said, "It was a blast" in answer to Cain's inquiry about her day, the inventor was halfway up the stairs and intent on mixing ingredients to show her what an _actual_ blast looked like before anyone could call out for him to stop.

**49. They **

She is sick of him saying that the people love, respect and trust her; she doesn't care how _they_ feel--she wants to know how _he_ feels.

**50. Rot**

She feels as though she is decaying from the inside out, and wonders if anyone will notice the fact that she's dying.


	32. Liar's Life

_Author's Notes: Not much to say here, except…just give me the benefit of the doubt on this one, okay? Pitchforks and torches will be available on your way out._

* * *

He never cried once.

Not when the blonde doctor came from the operating room, scrubs covered in blood, a mournful look on her face. Not when the Queen broke into hysterical, despondent sobs and collapsed on the cracked tile of the waiting room floor. Not when the Consort sat in the hard chair and buried his head in his hands, shoulders shaking as he wept.

Not when her sister began beating her fists against his chest and demanded to know where he'd been when she was exiting the royal transport and heading back into the palace; why hadn't he done his job and stopped the assassin before he'd gotten the shot off?

Not when the other guards looked at him accusingly, their eyes sharply telling him he'd known of the threats for months now; the rebels hadn't been quiet in their dissent toward the royal family. The guards had known that a traitor had infiltrated the court, intent on taking her life, as she was the official successor to her mother's throne. He'd told them time and again to keep an eye out for anything unusual. She'd paid the price when he failed to take his own advice.

He showed no emotion when his son ushered him away from the grieving family, leading him to the doctor's lounge her surgeon had procured for them in the hope that they could at least find privacy when they would never find solace. Not when Jeb put a hand on his shoulder and said he was sorry for his father's loss; that he knew what she meant to him.

Not when he replied, "I'm glad somebody did."

He didn't cry as the streets filled with silent mourners carrying lit candles, nor when they stood outside the brick walls of the Central City royal residence in constant vigil. He showed no sentiment when they began laying bouquets and cards at the gate, weeping uncontrollably and demanding to know why the gods had taken her from them again. He didn't shed a tear as the stores began closing in preparation for the public memorial; he didn't cry when each streetlamp was covered with black ribbon, a reminder of just how dark their world was without her light.

He was numb as he stood guard outside the viewing room, doing for her in death what he did not do for her in life. He remained stoic when he heard Azkadellia sobbing against Glitch's shoulder, and refused to demonstrate any reaction when he heard the Queen kiss the closed top to the casket that held her beloved daughter.

He did not cry at the Cathedral of St. Glinda, where white daisies were overwhelmingly plentiful, as they'd been her favorite flower. He kept his composure while her sister spoke a moving eulogy, remembering a vivacious brunette who had an uncanny proclivity for getting into trouble--and making their lives colorfully vibrant as a result. He did not cry as he followed the royal family out the side entrance of the church; his eyes were deadened, matching the other mourners in their numbed state as the casket was rolled out to the waiting transport carriage.

He remained stonefaced when they arrived at the cemetery, and swallowed around the lump in his throat when he saw the grave marker etched with her name on it. His shoulders remained back, his chin up, as her family and friends each dropped a daisy on the tilled earth. He did not say goodbye to her; did not reach out and caress her headstone as he'd lovingly touched her face so many times before.

He did not cry himself to sleep the first night alone, or the second, or the third. He did not stagger in the grief of seeing her toothbrush in his bathroom; did not falter beneath the weight of the sorrow he felt when smelling her scent on the shirt she loved to sleep in.

He did not show the hurt when the Queen swiftly, and without argument, accepted his resignation and caustically bid him goodbye. He simply and succinctly nodded to the rest of the guard, Raw and Glitch as he mounted his horse and took off toward the darkened hills of Munchkin Country. He did not allow sharp pain to penetrate his chest when no one asked him to reconsider and stay; when no one said he was needed or wanted here.

He did not cry as the silver glint of Central City--the shining, beckoning radiance of the promise of a brighter, better future--disappeared behind slumping, burdened hills and wilting, exhausted flora.

He did not feel relief once he was safely ensconced in the heavy foliage surrounding the small cabin, even if this was the only part of the Zone that had the potential to be comforting; that had the ability to shield him from the devastating and crushing hurt of the past week. He remained unfeeling as he led the horse to the small stable behind the house, his steps leaden and troubled as he tried to trudge through the mud and lingering despair.

The dam finally broke when he heard the rustle of curtains against a smudged window, and the creak of a misshapen wooden door against an uneven porch.

When he inevitably fell, she was there to catch him.

She eased him to the ground, and he crushed her to him, enveloping himself in the faint but reassuring scent of her soap. She cradled his head against her shoulder and murmured soothingly to him, reminding him she was safe--and happy now that he was here.

He leaned back and drank in the sight of her, a desperately parched man stumbling through a mirage of weighted lies. Though he'd known she wasn't in the casket, the mere thought that this pretense had the potential for truth had nearly been his undoing. Seeing the hateful blame on her family's faces had nearly broken him as much as her insistent demands that faking her own death--that ripping countless lives apart--was the only way to keep everyone she loved safe.

He'd known he'd see her again; hell, he'd been the one to sneak her out of the hospital while the doctor was preparing to declare her "dead." He'd been the one to recruit and train the "assassin," knowing that his inside man would be the best way to investigate the true rebel infiltrator's identity. But watching her ride away--watching as she did what she knew was right but most definitely not easy--broke the heart she'd so carefully mended. She'd given up so much for those she loved, and they'd never truly know the depth of her sacrifice. Her tears had glistened in the faint torchlight as she'd taken one final look toward the home and family she'd searched so long for; he'd had to look away, for he'd known he had to be as strong as she was, and knew he'd fail if he watched the longing and despair color her pale cheeks. She'd tried so hard to be brave, nodding significantly--but still doubtfully--before blowing him a kiss and disappearing into a moonless night.

He'd scrubbed his own tears from his face when the wind caught her soft, hitching sobs and sent them back to where he stood outside the hospital. As she rode away, he vowed he would not cry again, for his part in this ruse was unimportant in comparison to everything she'd done.

Now he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, and she cradled his face with her hands, rubbing her thumbs gently over his cheekbones. Resting his forehead against hers, he whispered again--for the thousandth time--that he was sorry she had to go through this; for the thousandth time, she repeated that she could get through anything as long as they were together.

Finally, she stood, holding a hand to him. There would be a time, she said, when he could go back and tell those they trusted of their fabrication. There would be a time for explanations and forgiveness. There would be a time when they could drop the "liar" from the definition of their lives.

In the interim, they would just survive.

FIN

* * *

_A/N 2: Thanks to the producers of "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit," from whom I stole this idea (Season Five, "Loss" was the OMG!Moment of my life. Seriously.)_

_So. Do we all hate me now, or what? :)_


	33. Top of the World

_Author's Notes: This piece was written for the "Don't disturb my circles!" quote challenge at the LJ Community TMChallenge. In truth, I had no intention of writing for the prompt, since nothing I came up with worked. But I listened to Brooke Fraser's "C.S. Lewis Song," which has the line "mercy comes with the morning," and that ultimately inspired this piece of Wyatt/Adora fun. (I know, I was shocked when Charlie came up with that one, too.)_

_There was a 500 word limit on the piece, which is why this is so short. At any rate, I hope you enjoy it._

* * *

Those who surround him are surprised he sleeps through the night.

They assume that when he sleeps, he sees her fall; watches the vibrancy in her eyes slip away as her blood soaks the ground. They assume all he can dream about is watching her being taken from him, separated by Longcoats and rusted tin.

They assume nightmares are all he is capable of. And they are wrong.

He does not loathe the oncoming night. In fact, he looks forward to it with an exhilarated anticipation he thought had died with her.

Some of the dreams are memories; their first meeting, their first kiss, their first dance. Watching her hold Jeb for the first time. Listening to her try not to laugh as he tried to change his newborn son. Hearing her in the kitchen, wooden spoon clattering against her grandmother's pots as she made soup for her boys after they'd caught a cold.

But those dreams are not his favorites. Instead, his favorites are not dreams at all. They are somehow a bridge between this world and the next; a tether he holds onto with all his might. A path he will happily traverse as long as she's waiting on the other side.

A place where life and death do not exist, but peaceful solace does.

The landscape is unfamiliar; a beach where jagged rocks jetton out from the shoreline. The water is impossibly colored; a mixture of blues and greens that reflect the sunlight. The breeze is gentle, as though it understands he cannot be rushed and refuses to push him away.

Though the location of the dreams remains the same, the other content is fluid. Sometimes, they simply walk hand in hand, saying nothing. Sometimes they sit on the edge of the sand, and he tells her everything he can possibly think of, because if he keeps speaking, she won't leave. Sometimes, she runs ahead and teasingly calls back to him, saying he better hurry up, lest the other Tin Men find out just how out of shape he is in his "old age."

Sometimes he just watches her, remembering what drew him to her in the first place. Her spirit and determination, evidenced by how she climbs the highest peak and holds out a hand, beckoning him to join her. Her grace as she lets him do things in his own time, patiently waiting for him to come to her. Her playfulness as she draws designs in the sand with her toes, letting him drink in that which will let him get through the next day. Her laugh and halfhearted admonishment of "Don't disturb my circles!" when he finally joins her and his footprints threaten to ruin her masterpiece. Her smile, which is more blinding than the suns reflecting off the sea.

The fact that she always kisses him good night, not goodbye. Never goodbye.

Others think the night should terrify him, when in fact it is the only thing that makes him feel alive.

FIN


	34. Goodbye Girl

_Disclaimer: The people you recognize are not mine. The people you don't recognize aren't mine, either, technically, as they're all based on real people in my beloved hometown of Medfield, MA. I hope they don't mind their unpaid cameos._

_Thank you to Bee, Alamo Girl and Meredith Paris for the endless love, support and cookies._

_Summary and title come from the Emily West song of the same name._

* * *

A dark head rushes through small town streets, dodging fathers balancing daughters on their shoulders; avoiding mothers struggling to manage both strollers and unruly two-year-olds.

If she is late one more time, she's certain her boss will finally follow up on his threats to fire her. As much as she dislikes it sometimes, she needs this job; not only for the money, but for the levelheaded, rejuvenating sanity it provides.

She knows her intelligence would allow her to do just about anything she wanted to. But there is a part of her that is happy now with the simple, unassuming anonymity of waiting tables and working a cash register. She is aware of the irony; there was a time, not long ago, that this--living a life of simplicity and seeming unimportance--was tantamount to her worst nightmare. Now, it is the only thing she can imagine doing; this is the only person she can imagine being.

Though sometimes she still finds it nearly unfathomable, she is no longer a magically-inclined princess who was once inexorably tied to dark magic. Now she is just a normal girl in the middle of small town nowhere, working at an impossibly tiny restaurant and dutifully caring for her doting parents. She's looking into community college, interested in the possibility of becoming a nurse. There are no demons following her anymore; no shadows lurking and threatening to consume her at any given moment.

This is the second chance she never considered to be a possibility, even in her wildest dreams. As a result, she is taking advantage of the life she never thought she'd get to have, let alone want. She strives to live each day to the fullest; love the simple pleasures others ignore. Have an insatiable appetite; learn about the world--and herself--as though she is discovering them for the first time.

The bell clangs angrily against the door as she hurriedly pushes it open; it matches the look on her boss's face perfectly. She widens her eyes--a move she learned long ago could get her out of just about any pile of trouble--and offers a soft apology. Her boss merely shakes his head and tells her to get behind the counter. It's Saturday (as if she doesn't already know this, but she somehow finds the strength to bite her tongue) and the small shop is already packed to the gills with waiting customers.

She dons her apron, covering her white blouse and blue jeans, and wonders what the people back home might say if they saw her like this. They know her only as one thing--royalty, for lack of a better term--to see her working in a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint outside Boston might just make a few heads spin. It's as far from the Zone as one can get.

She loves it. She wouldn't have it any other way.

She knew she couldn't stay there. Part of her knew she should want to stay, but the urge to run had been growing steadily since the Eclipse. Her birth family said they understood, and eventually agreed to send her back with her adoptive parents.

That had been over a year ago. Slipping between the OZ and the OS on a regular basis is too dangerous--and too consuming of both time and power--so she's been cut off from the world she's left behind. She's not sure if that's a blessing or a curse. She misses her family, especially the sister that had just been returned to her, but the encroaching darkness of her past failures--and the potential that she'd disappoint them all again--had been too much to ignore. Starting over in a new town with a new name and few expectations had been the greatest gift anyone could ever be given, and she refuses to let it slip past.

The door opens again, but it is not the bell that alerts her to the new arrivals. Instead, she feels the wall of intensely energized heat from the late summer heat wave outside slam into her, causing her eyes to water. Turning her head, she continues ringing up Mrs. Portanova's weekly order and calls out to the new customers to grab a drink and take a seat; she'll be there in a minute. As she quickly makes change for her customer's twenty, she asks about Jimmy, Michael and Emma, and does not notice that the figures sliding along the wall to the booth by the window should be stunningly familiar.

It's not until she's standing at table five, pen poised against order pad, that she finally recognizes the customers. Everyone else in the shop has already taken note of the strangers. This is Medfield, after all, where everyone knows everyone, and then some. Most of the customers are not necessarily intrigued by the new arrivals, but are more shocked that their normally even-keeled, gently smiling, favorite waitress looks as though her legs might just give out from beneath her. She looks as though her world has just shattered around her.

And it has. She hadn't planned on seeing the faces sitting in front of her for a long time--if ever again. She is momentarily dismayed to realize that she'd forgotten just how brightly her sister's wide smile could shine, or just how comforting the faded brown material of a fedora could be.

She quickly realizes she needs to recapture the mental images, and stares at her sister, unblinking, for a long minute. She knows that if she closes her eyes, even for a second, the face she's missed so much will surely disappear from her field of vision, a wavering mirage in the late afternoon sunshine. She immediately notes that there is something different about the other woman; she is relaxed and carefree, even as tears threaten to spill down her cheeks. Her companion is smiling just as broadly, chuckling softly; both are things she never thought she'd experience like this.

It is he who finally breaks the silence. "Hey there, Princess."

That breaks her from her stupefied trance. She laughs and leans down, hugging her sister tightly. The warmth of the embrace has little to do with their shared magic or the heat of the day; of that she's certain. It's made of the comforting knowledge that even with time and distance, they are still connected by an unbreakable tether. She cradles her sister's face and cannot speak around the lump blocking her vocal chords.

Her boss clears his throat from behind her. "You okay, kiddo?"

She nods, tucking an unruly strand of hair behind her sister's ear. "Oh, yes." Turning, she indicates the seated woman. "I'm sorry, Richard. This is my sister."

The man's formerly grumpy face works through momentary shock before he extends his hand to his newest customers. "You never said you had a sister!"

She cannot help but laugh, and watches as her sister and Cain share a grin at her cheerful disposition; they both remember when it was too overwhelmingly awkward to smile or generally feel happy. "She lives out of state," she finally says. "We don't get to visit much."

Richard leans towards her, a worried hilt to his voice. "They're not from New York, are they?"

She laughs louder, knowing he'd fire her on the spot if they were; he's very protective of his New England roots. "No, Richard. You're safe."

"Good." He puts a fatherly hand on her shoulder before addressing the table. "You folks hungry?"

She knows her sister's order before the woman can even open her mouth. "Extra cheese, mushrooms and tomato slices."

Richard smiles at the familiar request. "Must be a family thing." To her, he continues, "You take all the time you need, kiddo. Nancy and I'll take care of things."

He's gone before she can protest. The waitress sits down next to her sister, taking the other woman's fingers beneath her hand and squeezing them forcefully, convincing herself she's not imagining this. "I can't believe…what are you _doing_ here, DG?"

DG playfully lifts one shoulder. "Yankees-Red Sox is this weekend. It's a pretty big deal, you know."

Azkadellia's eye roll is nearly identical to Cain's. The youngest princess merely continues to grin. "I missed you," she says, tightening the grip they still have on each other's fingers. "I wanted to see you."

Az lifts her eyebrows in disbelieving questioning. "How'd you even know where I was?"

"Glitch outfitted Mom and Pop with GPS trackers when we sent you here. Once the travel storm landed, we were able to access the coordinates." DG looks out the window to the two-traffic light town. "Of all the places you could go, I never imagined you'd pick here."

She feels suddenly defensive of her adopted home. "Well, I couldn't take Hank and Emily back to Kansas; they'd ask too many questions there."

DG's voice is soft. "I know." She looks down at the table, tearing at the edges of a paper napkin. "How are they?"

Azkadellia's heart clenches in her chest, but she somehow manages to keep her tone neutral. "Good. Hank's taken over maintenance at the high school. And Emily volunteers in the library a couple of times a week."

She can tell from the distant--but altogether heartbroken--look in her sister's eyes that she desperately wants to ask if they remember her. They don't; the coercion virus and Sorceress's mechanics' rewiring skills were extraordinary. They don't know DG outside her being a threat to their "baby girl's" safety. They don't remember much about Kansas, except that they are skilled at adapting to new environments and finding new purpose.

They are no longer the people DG knew, and it breaks Azkadellia's heart. It brings her a sense of self-loathing unparalleled by anything the Sorceress may have done. It is the one thing in this new life that Az hasn't been able to outrun. But Hank and Emily have relaxed in to a new life in Medfield, and seem happy with it. Azkadellia just hopes DG knows she's done everything--will continue to do everything--to make sure they have a safe life here. It's the least she can do.

She catches the gentle look the Tin Man gives her sister, and watches as DG unthinkingly slides her hand towards him, seeking solace. He gives it easily, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

It is then that the sunshine reflects off something on DG's left hand.

She hears the distant clatter of a pizza pan on the tile floor, but just barely, over her delighted--albeit confused--very un-Azkadellia squeal. DG jumps, but dutifully extends her hand. The wistful longing is gone from her face, replaced by rose-colored embarrassment on her cheeks, and also a proud, blissful smile.

Azkadellia is struck temporarily mute. She looks between her sister's face and hand, mouth working as she tries to find the words. Finally, she asks in a broken stutter, "When? How? _Who_?"

DG snorts at the incredulous look on Cain's face, and Az feels indescribably foolish as she's fully pulled back to reality. Tearing her eyes from her sister's ring finger, she reaches for and pats Cain's hand, trying to hide her amusement at the Tin Man's disbelieving, narrowed-eyed expression. "Of course it's you. There's never been anybody else."

She sees him relax when DG nods, winking slightly in loving confirmation. Azkadellia repeats her earlier questions, this time with more pressing fervor. "When? How?"

Before she'd left, she'd been well aware her sister carried a torch for her unofficial bodyguard, but also knew of the woman's plan to ignore her own feelings in favor of his comfort. She'd said that she'd be the best friend she could, giving him as much time as he needed--to grieve his wife, reconnect with his son, relearn how to live in a vastly changed world.

There is a different tone to the next exchanged look between Cain and DG, one that immediately makes Azkadellia uncomfortable, deflating the exalted joy seeing the engagement ring brought. She looks between the two, and watches Cain tighten his fingers around his fiancée's in encouragement. DG clears her throat and leans against the storefront glass, protectively pulling her knees to her chest.

Azkadellia's blood runs cold as DG tells of what she tries to lightly term The Incident: several weeks after Az's departure from the Zone, DG had been in Central City, and had been mistaken for the older princess. An irate citizen had pulled a knife.

She'd been injured. Though DG doesn't elaborate, Az knows it was much worse than her sister is letting on; Cain's jaw and fists are clenched so tightly in remembering the fear and anger that the elder princess doubts little blood flow is circulating.

Az wants to throw up, but is struck immovably numb at the knowledge that even on this side of the rainbow--even as she tried to give them back the peaceful lives she'd once stolen so violently from them--she was still causing her family harm.

DG pulls her hand from Cain's and rests it on her sister's arm. "Az," she says forcefully, "it wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong." They are words the girls have exchanged a thousand times before, but they have never been as useless as they are now.

She knows DG can sense the distraught tension curling through her body. "It was a blessing in disguise," the youngest princess continues, again glancing across the table at Cain, "because it got both of us to wake up and realize how much time we'd wasted; that tomorrow's not a guarantee."

Buoyed by the silent but strong and obvious love exchanged in the simple look, Az relaxes and cups DG's cheek. "My lovely little sister. Listen to you; you almost sound like an adult."

DG makes a face and swats at her hand, but matches her sister's grin after a moment. "I wanted to come and ask you to be my maid of honor."

Now that she's been on the Other Side for a while, Az understands the privilege associated with such a request. She gathers DG in a forceful hug, quickly and heartily whispering her acceptance and thanks at being included--being remembered, even as she wanted to forget.

Impulsively, she stands to give her soon-to-be brother-in-law a hug. She can tell from the easy way he returns the embrace that DG has had as much a good effect on him as he's had on her.

When she takes her seat again, Richard has arrived with their pizza. DG digs into her slice with gusto, asking a hundred, mostly unimportant questions about Az's life on the Other Side. She shares gossip from the Zone--Glitch has settled into palace life well, despite the fact the re-brainment is impossible; Raw has returned to his people, but still acts as an emissary between the Viewers and the palace. There is a mischievous twinkle to her light eyes when she speaks of Jeb Cain's appointment as Commander in the Royal Guard--and his resulting ability to issue orders to both his father and medic girlfriend.

In turn, Azkadellia tells of her slow but enthusiastic immersion into Other Side life. DG laughs when Az describes how amazed she was with DVRs and satellite television, and the youngest princess nearly chokes on her soda when her sister confesses she still doesn't understand the fascination with all the cop/forensic shows on the airwaves. She shyly tells of the young math teacher at the high school that always seems to find a reason to drop by the pizza parlor after Friday night football games, and is nearly rendered deaf by DG's delighted shriek when she tells her sports-loving sibling just how easily she can break down the Patriots' running game.

She is taken aback by the sudden, unbidden feeling that as much as she's enjoying spending time with her sister, it will not be her undoing when the woman returns to the Zone. She looks down at her plate, trying to comprehend what it could mean. DG is her sister, her _family_; Az should want to keep her as close as possible. So why does she just _know_ she'll be fine long after the travel storm touches back down in the Zone?

As she always does, DG senses her confusion and hesitancy, and again puts her hand on Azkadellia's arm. "It just means you're happy, Az," she says quietly. "That you've found your own two feet to stand on. You've found your own life to live."

"I wouldn't have been able to do it without you," she replies, rather unnecessarily, but somehow feels better once she's voiced the sentiment.

DG gently smoothes down a few fly-aways from her sister's ponytail. "Yes, you would."

The uncomfortable block of ice in Azkadellia's stomach begins to thaw. "How long are you planning on staying?"

"Just a couple of days. Instability of the travel storms and all."

Richard approaches again, a regretful look on his face. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but we need you in the back, kid. Football team's coming in."

Az looks at her sister, an apology on her lips. DG waves it quickly away. "I was planning on getting lost downtown anyway," she says with an understanding smile. She pulls out her cell phone, and Azkadellia wonders how on Earth the thing still works this long after DG slipped from here.

DG says one word in explanation: "Glitch." Az smiles, and the girls exchange phone numbers, with the elder sister promising to call once her shift was over. Neither Gale can control a girlish giggle as Cain looks on, somewhat dumbly, wholly mystified by the technology.

After another hug, Az watches them leave; the bell against the door is no longer angry or exhaustedly busy. Instead, its reverberation is a cheerful goodbye, soothing in its invigorating reminder that she--just like her sister and the Tin Man--chose the paths that led them here, and can choose to go back at any time.

She's reminded of the second chance the gods have graced her with, and repeats the promise she and her sister unknowingly shared: she won't waste any more time. She sends a quick thank-you to the heavens; they have provided both sisters with the one thing they'd always lacked: a sense of home.

Perhaps she'll go back to the Zone one day; live this life over there, unapologetic for being like everyone else: a survivor, someone who's found a new place to start. Someone who knows what she wants in life, and is brave enough to go after it.

For now, she has twenty-five hungry high schoolers to feed.

And perhaps their math teacher.

FIN


	35. Daedalus and Icarus

_Author's Notes: This piece was written for a picture challenge at the LJ Community TM Challenge. My chosen picture was of a tomato plant. _

_Serious angst warning applies here. _

_Thank you, as always, to Alamo Girl, Bee and Meredith Paris._

_Random Mythology Tidbit O' The Day: Daedalus and Icarus were father and son, imprisoned on the isle of Crete. In order to escape, Daedalus created two pairs of wax wings. He warned Icarus not to fly too close to the sun, or the wings would melt. Icarus didn't listen, too thrilled with the feeling of flying, and the sun melted his wings, plunging him to his death._

_

* * *

_She was the Daedalus to his Icarus. Though she had tried to warn him of the inevitable danger, ultimately, she had given him the tools with which to destroy himself. She had been the one to institute this practice; had been the one to rip him apart so long ago. She was the one who trained the personnel that eventually killed him. Twice.

Her family told her he had made his own decision; that unlike before, his hand had not been forced. This punishment was of his own making, not hers.

She did not believe them. Even if she had, it did not make his loss any easier, nor did it lessen the piercing guilt she felt every time she thought about him.

His request to her mother in the weeks after the Eclipse had been a quiet one, nearly lost beneath the bustling, mirthful insanity of a family dinner. His hushed, reverent tone told of both his hesitancy, but also the breathless excitement undergoing the surgery--again--brought.

DG had protested immediately, fearful of losing her dear friend. But Ambrose had taken her tiny hand beneath his and gently explained that he was painfully aware just how much was missing from him, and how that empty feeling would linger as long as his brain remained in the protective chamber in the former Black Tower. There were memories in there, of his childhood, his family; countless musings and ideas that desperately and fervently needed to be explored. He truly was not whole, and_ that_--not the surgery--was the greatest pain he could imagine. But it was his next statement that ultimately convinced the youngest princess to drop her initial protest: "You're rediscovering your past, doll. I just want the same opportunity."

Azkadellia had gone to him a few nights later, having spent half the night curled in a tightly protective ball, wishing the sense of dread would stop threatening to smother her. As she walked down the gilded but significantly tarnished hallway between their bedrooms, she thought back to the Ambrose she knew growing up--a fiercely loyal member of the court, yes, but more importantly, a trusted friend with the kindest, sweetest soul Azkadellia could ever imagine. His relationship with DG had been playful and consisted of marathon games of tag and hide and seek; a true reminder of just how young he was in comparison with the rest of the Queen's advisors. With Azkadellia, however, Ambrose had matched the eldest princess's shy, gentle inquisitiveness, and they'd spent long hours hidden in the library, translating ageless text from the Ancients' picture language. She could still easily recall the lightness to his eyes when he thought of a new idea, the enthusiasm with which he'd race to his lab to begin working on a prototype or sketching blueprints was both inspiring and infectious. Where Tutor had opened her eyes to the reality of magic, Ambrose had taught her about the magic of the ordinary.

She'd started to fall in love with him--or, at least as in love as a twelve-annual-old understands. When the Witch possessed her, the hag quickly realized the bond--and also how to make her host understand just how dangerous defiance was: to take away that which the girl loved most.

Ambrose never stood a chance after that, and Azkadellia was forced to watch as her hands, her mouth, her voice sentenced her best friend to his worst nightmare. Not death, but living without that which made him special--not just to her, but to the world.

She'd gone to him a few nights after his declaration to submit to the surgery to try and speak to him as the girl who'd known Ambrose--the person DG did not remember. Azkadellia had tried to speak to him as a detached, rational individual, listing her points methodically, just as the former advisor had a tendency to do. He was the only "patient" ever to have thrived this way after the de-brainment; all the others had been sentenced to final days in both a state-run mental hospital, and as prisoners of their own minds. None had lived more than a few annuals.

She'd tried to tell him that the power surging through the anti sun-seeder--not to mention its numerous readings by various Viewers--had probably singed the synapses beyond hope of repair and reconnection. All of the other prisoner's brains had been destroyed after the surgery; no one knew what being kept alive in an artificial state--and in a vat of chemicals--did to the brain itself. No one knew if an exposed organ could even _be_ reinserted.

The risks clearly outweighed the benefits. Even with half a brain, he was the smartest man she knew; surely he could see that.

He started to refute her points, one by one, and she'd realized his mind was already made up. It was then that she lost hold of her undemonstrative cadence, and began speaking emotionally, her words rushing around them like a waterfall in a drowning summer storm. He truly was one in a million. He'd already defied the odds. Why did he want to tempt fate again? Why risk what little you have left?

She'd spoken about knowing the overwhelming frustration of indecision; the feeling of being caught in between two worlds with no hope of escaping. She also knew the pain of having two personalities battling for dominance and never declaring a victor. If the surgery was a success--and that was a big _if_--odds were he'd feel more confused than he'd ever fathomed possible. She didn't want that for him; she'd already sentenced him to his worst nightmare once before. She didn't want him to have to go through it again.

She couldn't voice her biggest worry: that he wouldn't make it out of the operating room alive. Instead, she'd tried to remind him that he would be gaining nothing but recollections of days long gone and completely out of reach; why not take this opportunity and just make _new_ memories?

She forced herself to look up at him through damp lashes and drowned eyes, and said people loved him as Glitch, just as people had loved Ambrose. They--_she_--had missed Ambrose all these annuals; why would he take himself away again?

He'd held her as she'd cried, as she sobbed out her apologies for all the pain she'd inflicted on him. He'd rubbed a soothing hand up and down her back as she asked him not to go through the surgery. His voice had been patient and tender as he worked through her queries, and she held tightly to the gentleness, somehow knowing it would be the last time she'd hear it. "If I don't try, I'll always wonder _what if_, Azkadee. I won't be able to live a full life knowing I didn't try everything."

"But if it fails, we can never get you back. You'll be irretrievably lost; more lost than you feel now."

He'd pressed a kiss to her temple. "I'll always be here, Azkadee. You can count on that."

He'd kept his promise, in a way; only it was the specter of what was lost instead of found that constantly followed her, not him. The doctors--a team of both highly-trained Resistance doctors and the Sorceress's most talented medicos--had worked delicately through the twenty-three hour surgery, barely breathing as they unzipped his head for the last time.

There had been cautious optimism when the lead surgeon had swung through the double doors leading to the operating room and said that he'd survived reinsertion of the organ. Now they were just trying to reconnect the synapses. Careful hopefulness turned into joyful jubilation when Ambrose woke up three days later, and after recognizing the members of the vigil who hadn't left his bedside, asked for muglug.

They were so blinded by their elation that they didn't realize Ambrose was quieter than usual; that it took him significantly longer to answer simple questions. He started to forget things. At first, the mistakes were intermittent and of minor importance, and he would just chuckle boyishly and play it off as though it were nothing.

Most of the others, remembering him only as "Glitch," didn't find the continued forgetfulness alarming. But Azkadellia, having seen the same progression of symptoms in the other "patients" after their surgeries, knew it was only a matter of time.

He started getting lost more often, even if he meant only to go next door. He forgot about his severe allergy to mushrooms, and had to be treated by an emergency room physician when the new cook served him a plateful.

It was as though he was fading into nothingness. He was finally like all the other patients; no longer the doctors' miracle. His brain and personality were like a sheet of paper, continually folding back onto itself until it was so tiny that it was completely useless and unrecognizable.

The hallucinations started shortly thereafter, and Azkadellia watched helplessly from the gazebo at Finaqua as Cain and DG tried to convince a terrified, frantic Ambrose the hedges were, in fact, not moving. They found him--in the nick of time, for his toes were curled over the eaves--on the roof in the middle of a thunderstorm, arms outstretched, calling to the wind that he was ready to fly if it was.

He started forgetting people, even those who had been his closest friends since DG met him in the Eastern Guild camp. He was terrified of Raw, mistaking him for a Papay; the dark-haired man's screams for help when the gentle Viewer tried to approach were heartbreakingly sharp and terrified. He mistook the Queen as a maid, yelling at her each time his bed remained unmade. To him, Ahamo was a prowler, intent on stealing things of great value. Ambrose had dislocated the man's shoulder when he thought the Consort was trying to steal a pen and pad of paper from the Queen's office.

The hardest part was watching as Ambrose forgot DG's significance to him. There were times that it seemed like he wasn't even aware she existed. But to this new Ambrose, she had no significance in his life, other than the fact she was always with Cain when he visited. Cain, Ambrose was convinced, was in charge of the palace--the man behind the curtain. Ambrose wondered aloud, on more than one occasion, when Cain would find a nice girl and settle down, maybe have a family. A wife and a son for the most important man in the Zone. It was a lovely idea to the former Zipperhead; it was salt on a wound to the rest of them.

As Ambrose's descent continued, Azkadellia pulled back to where she felt most safe: the shadows. She followed him, watched him carefully, trying to protect him from whatever she could. It was the first time since the night of the Eclipse that she wished she had the Witch's power to combine with hers; perhaps that would be the way to save him.

She hadn't realized Ambrose's paranoid state had become so deeply ingrained, and that he'd thought he was being followed long before she shadowed him. She hadn't realized he'd started arming himself against those intent on "getting him."

The first--and only--time he caught her "hunting him," he put a knife to her throat and nearly killed her with one smooth, straight cut.

Cain and two of the guardsmen heard her scream before blood entered her trachea and she started to choke. They took Ambrose away, kicking, and screaming that he'd killed the Witch.

His laughter was elated. "Now we have nothing to fear!" he'd cried. His triumphant and maniacal song carried alongside the stretcher taking the injured princess into the royal infirmary. "Ding dong, the Witch is dead…ding dong, the Wicked Witch is dead!"

DG, Raw and Cain sat in Azkadellia's hospital room and tried to fight through the devastation of admitting their dear friend was gone, mourning that loss, but also for concern for the stranger living in his body. He needed space, a simple life. One far away from Central City--far away from any densely populated areas in the Zone. "He's a danger to himself and others," Cain had said, holding DG as she sobbed hysterically as the truth threatened to drown her in its unrelenting storm.

Her voice was heavy with exhaustion and burden when she spoke again. "We need to find someone to take care of him. Someone trained, someone highly qualified. We can't do it--just look how he looks at us…" She'd dissolved into broken tears again, and had she not been outfitted with several IV transfusions of antibacterial agents, pain medicine and plasma, Azkadellia would have reached out to her.

Instead, she laid frustratingly unmoving in her bed. "No one's trained in this kind of thing, DG. He's the first person to ever be rebrained."

DG's voice was coldly sharp. "Are you suggesting we _kill_ him?"

"No!" She felt a hiss of air escape through the sutures on her neck, and knew her doctor would be displeased she'd been speaking so forcefully so soon after surgery. "I'm just…he wandered all around the Zone with only half a brain. After I…the Sorceress convinced one of the guards he was no longer a threat, they let him go. He survived. Thrived, even. And he can still function. We just have to find an environment that is new to him, simple enough for him to adapt. He's a stranger now--to himself, to us. Perhaps putting him in a strange _place_ will bring the cohesion he so desperately needs."

DG looked at her hands. "A clean slate."

Az nodded, and Cain had looked at her interestedly. "Do you have any suggestions?'

She didn't--not specific ones, anyway. "We need to find an out-of-the-way place; not too many people, because that would overwhelm him. Somewhere unfamiliar to him, so he can learn about it, make it safe to _his_ standards."

"So, you want to dump him in the middle of Munchkin Country and call it a day?" DG asked nastily, and this time, it was Azkadellia who averted her eyes, focusing on the raised squares on the white quilted hospital blanket.

"I think it's a good idea," Cain finally said, looking between the two sisters. "If we can find someone to keep an eye on him--drop in to check on him, maybe give him some help managing everyday tasks…I think that could work."

"You want to abandon him on the side of the road."

Cain's voice was sharp. "Kiddo, you know that's not what we're doing. We're trying to do right by our friend."

"Right would have been never exposing him to this in the _first_ place."

Azkadellia felt the venomous words bite through her skin and spread debilitating and painful poison through her veins. "I can never apologize enough for what I've done," she said hoarsely, tears streaming down her face and soaking the gauze wrapped around her throat. "I tried to talk him out of it, just like you did, DG. But it was his choice. We supported him then, and we'll support him now."

DG's jaw worked angrily, and the chilly room became unbearably hot by the rage radiating off the youngest princess. "Lorraine and Ralph," she finally said, looking at Cain. "They were out at the edge of the realm. Not much there but woodland. Maybe they could keep an eye out for him."

"I'll look into it." Cain pressed a kiss against DG's forehead and left.

After a moment of looking unblinkingly at her sister, the youngest princess rose and followed him. The palpable anger lingered throughout the rest of Azkadellia's hospital stay.

Ambrose was taken to the edge of the Emmersly's property. The former Rebellion member had enlisted his brother and nephews to build their newest neighbor a small shack. Consisting of only four tiny rooms--bedroom, kitchen, living and bath--it would be much easier to maneuver through than the numerous, circuitous pathways in the palace.

Cain and DG accompanied him to his new home, and Ambrose had been ecstatic at showing "the man in charge" his new garden. "I'm going to plant tomatoes," he'd announced, "and you, Sir Wyatt of Cain, will be welcome most any time. I'll make anything you wish. Anything your heart desires."

What the exuberant man failed to recognize was that what Cain's heart desired more than anything was too out of reach to ever be reality: his friend, back and safe and healthy once more.

Azkadellia still goes out to visit him every now and again. She sits in a tree on the edge of the Emmersly farm, hidden in the high branches, knees curled to her chest. She watches as he works in his garden--which has now expanded to include root vegetables and a few things she cannot identify from this height and distance--and listens as he hums an off-key tune. She always cries when he smiles, because she knows the only reason he smiles is because he's happy.

Happy not being the man he'd faced death to be. Happy not being the man with loving friends and family he's forgotten. Happy living the life he did not want--without books, without the endless pursuit of knowledge. But he does love his life as a simple farmer, and the rest of them cannot help but hope that _that _will be the one good outcome from the failed surgery.

In the end, he did not live his life asking "what if."

The rest of them did.

FIN


	36. The Difficult Kind

_Author's Notes: As everything in my life tends to be, this is all Alamo Girl's fault. :) Thanks, as always, for the glorious discussions, prompts and fandom you-know-whats. You're the best._

_Huge thanks as well to SpikesSweetie and Meredith Paris, for being made of awesome. _

_This one's for Allie, just because I can, and just because Abby/Norris FTW. _

* * *

She has a habit of looking over her shoulder. It's as though she expects she'll turn around one day and he won't be there.

He'd be lying if he said there weren't times when he asked himself why he agreed to do this. He'd be foolish not to admit that there weren't moments when he wishes he had turned down the request to become official bodyguard to the princess. It's not just different logistically--although there is an enormous distinction between protecting a royal versus the Mystic Man--but the world around him has changed since he was a Tin Man. _He_ has changed. He understands why there are those who question the Crown's loyalty to their subjects; why there are those who wish to harm his charge and her family.

There are times when he remembers being one of them.

This was the family who, at one time in his estimation, had abandoned the Zone. The Queen and Consort had all but disappeared after the Coup; had _allowed_ their murderous daughter--with one body already to her name in the form of the youngest princess--to morph into a dictator. The eldest princess's face is the one he saw in his nightmares; her associations are the ones who took his wife and son from him. There are still times when he has difficulty distinguishing between _then_ and _now_. He's caught himself looking at Azkadellia and doesn't see a possessed, lost little girl but instead, a coldhearted murderer.

Which is why he couldn't look himself in the mirror for days after he agreed to become her official bodyguard.

Something cold, divisive and numbing--too much like being inside the Iron Maiden--still churns icily in his stomach when he recalls the evening DG asked the impossible. He still sees the flash of surprise and hurt in her eyes when he recalls how quickly--how _angrily_, so much like the man she'd let out of the suit months before--he'd told her, in no uncertain terms, he couldn't do what she was requesting.

He still tastes the guilty words on his tongue that lashed out at the only Gale he could conceivably air his grievances to. How could she, of all people--the only person in this godforsaken hellhole masquerading as a world who knew him at all, who knew what he'd been through--could ask him to protect the woman who'd sentenced so many to death?

It was as though gasoline had cascaded on a longing and anticipatory spark, and the erupting conflagration was inevitable. It fueled everything he'd wanted to say since discovering DG's lineage, since the day at the cave in Finaqua: _Yes, DG, it _was_ your fault the Witch possessed Azkadellia. My wife is dead because of your sister. And now you want me to _protect _her? You're out of your mind, kid._

He still winces, and his chest still tightens as though he's suffocating--trapped again, but this time, his punishment is of his own making--when he remembers her crystalline eyes turning the same shade of navy as the dusky night that surrounded them as her tears formed. She'd surprised him by nodding toward the horizon for a moment, and then turning to face him with as determined a countenance as he'd ever seen--mostly from Adora when he'd really screwed up.

DG's voice had been hoarse but stable as she agreed with him.

It wasn't her tears that snuffed out the embers of his anger, leaving him wrapped in momentary but smoldering confusion; it was her agreement about her role in the current Ozian climate. She'd squared her jaw and stepped back toward him, stood toe to toe and looked up at him with both acknowledgement and a burden in her eyes that cowed him even without her saying another word.

But she'd continued to speak, telling him that she knew she was just as responsible, if not more so, for the atrocities currently befalling the Zone, and _she_ had to do something to make things right. And she would, as soon as her family was safe.

She'd stared unblinkingly at him, silently defied him to argue that protecting her family wasn't the most important thing, knowing full well he'd do no such thing. He'd done everything--would _do_ anything--to shelter his loved ones from harm. He'd sighed heavily, crossing his arms and dropping his chin to his chest. His fedora had hidden his face and emotions from her, but it hadn't mattered; she'd placed a hand on his arm and felt the tension ebbing into resignation. Her voice softened to the tone she'd used with Raw and Glitch the day they'd stormed the tower as she said that she understood--painfully, if the hitch in her voice was any indication--that he hadn't signed on for anything other than navigator and sometimes Mobat shooter. He'd wanted to smile at the reference, but was enthralled by her sincerity, her seriousness, her siren song-like alto voice, and remembers wondering if this was how the Sorceress got the Longcoats to do her bidding.

"And yet, here you are," she'd said, motioning to the balcony on which they stood, "still here with me. And here I am, asking you the most unfair of questions. To do the most difficult of jobs."

He'd shaken his head and exhaled sharply, finally looking directly at her. "Why me?"

The look in her eyes had told him that he should have known why he'd be entrusted with the care of the heir to the throne. He was capable, trustworthy, and had already proven he could be in the same room with Azkadellia without trying to kill her. He was certain there were few people in the O.Z. these days who would match a similar description. But he also knew that just because he _could_ do a job didn't mean he _should_.

But just as he'd guided her through the Zone, she eased him through his internal war. "Because, even if she were just a normal princess and there were a thousand bodyguards lined up at the gates who were ready and willing to take the job, we'd still only trust you to keep her safe."

An uncomfortably heavy weight settled on his chest as he seriously pondered her request; one, he figured, borne of conflicted acquiescence and the understandable desire to reject her proposal. He'd bowed to her then, the first time he'd done so since the night of the Eclipse (for she'd told him he'd meet the business end of his own gun if he ever did it again), and told her he needed time to think.

He'd left her--first, standing on the balcony; then, in the tower. Then, in Central City. Then, behind him, with the hills and valleys camouflaging their existence from each other.

He'd ridden to the edge of the northern guilds, where his son had returned to bunk with several of his Resistance fighters in an all-too-small cabin. They'd welcomed him with the traditional mead and muglug, and the house was raucously warm, but Cain hadn't felt this distantly cold since hearing the arrival of Zero's Longcoats so many annuals before. Jeb's friends had noticed the elder Cain's dour mood, and left father and son sitting on opposite sides of the table.

They would remain that way long after Cain left the cabin.

He'd told Jeb about DG's request, and had realized just how hardened his son had become--so far before his time--when he'd casually leaned back in his chair and remarked that Azkadellia deserved whatever she got, and DG wasn't much better, using her friendship with Wyatt as the bridge to span two divides that should never be connected.

Jeb's chair had hit the floor hard, sending reverberations across the planked wood and up Cain's legs, when he'd realized his father was seriously considering protecting the woman he--and the rest of the Realm--considered to be the Sorceress. Jeb had leapt to his feet then, demanding an explanation with fire in his eyes and his knuckles clenched tightly by his sides.

Cain's words were hollow; meaningless excuses posing as ill-conceived propaganda. "She's suffered just as much as the rest of us, Jeb," he'd said, contradicting his earlier words to DG. "She was a pawn in a cruel game, just like the rest of us."

Jeb had shaken his head, lips pursing in disbelief. "She's an inhuman monster! She deserves whatever punishment man or the gods find for her. She deserves the torture and the fear that she inflicted on so many, and you're _defending_ her! Thinking of protecting her when you couldn't even protect your own damn _family! _Who _are_ you?"

It's a question that still haunts him. Even now, he has no answer, just like he did not then.

Then, at least, he had tried to explain. "I took an oath, Jeb. Just like you did when you became an officer in the Resistance." He could still hear the Tin Men Pledge in his head: _Protect the innocent. Have mercy on the guilty. Serve your fellow man; have patience and understanding whether he is your enemy or your friend. _

"To protect and serve the _Zone_, not the people who destroyed it!"

Cain had folded his hands on the table, watching the firelight dance over his weathered skin and broken soul. "You killed men. You stopped Longcoat transports going to the outskirts of the realm. Some of them probably had food, medical supplies. You don't think that had repercussions?"

The same hearth fire flashed an angry warning in Jeb's hazel eyes. "It's not the same."

"Nothing is anymore."

Jeb had started to pace then, fists wrapping his mother's scarf around his knuckles until they turned white. "Why can't you just say no?"

"Who's going to do it if I decline? You? Your men?" He'd snorted derisively. "Not very likely."

Jeb had turned on his heel, teeth clenched, tone biting. "That's not fair."

They'd sat in charged silence for what felt like an eternity before Jeb spoke again. "Why'd you come here, Father? For my blessing?"

Cain had shrugged. "To be honest, son, I don't know. Guess I thought you'd kick some sense in to me one way or the other."

Longingly and with a faraway look in his eyes, Jeb had half-smiled, albeit briefly. "Like Mother used to."

Cain nodded, and Jeb ran a hand through his hair. "She'd tell you to do it, you know."

Intrigued, Cain had tilted his head in silent, encouraging questioning.

"We had a lot of defectors over the years; mostly Longcoats who got spooked as Azkadellia got more powerful. We all thought they should be tried for treason, crimes against humanity. But when they'd come into camp, she'd knit them a blanket, learn their life's stories, make them their favorite food on their birthday. She said there'd been too much hatred. That even the most hated outcast deserves redemption."

Cain had finally started to feel warm, and smiled, staring toward the fireplace and the memory of blonde hair, dark eyes and a loving spirit. "That sounds like your mother."

Jeb sat down at the table. "I always told her she was full of shit."

"_What?_"

Jeb had leaned forward, propping himself against the tabletop, his index finger punctuating his tight, angry words as he spoke. "You taught me that there are some things in this world that _are_ black and white; things that are either right or wrong. There are things you do, and then there are things you _don't_, under _any_ circumstances, do. There's no in-between. Defending and protecting Azkadellia? That's something you just _don't_ do."

Cain had exhaled sharply, disbelievingly, at the tightened vehemence coming from his son's mouth. "What if we were wrong and she was right? What if there _is_ a shade of grey? What if all the rules we followed before don't apply now?"

Jeb again leapt from his chair, knocking it loudly to the floor. "Azkadellia is a _murderer_. She killed your _wife. _She killed the only woman _I _ever loved; the woman I was going to marry! Those rules _always_ apply!"

His son's words--admission and reference to a relationship he'd never told Cain about before--deflated any counterargument Cain could come up with. They also robbed Cain of the very ability to speak, save for one word. "Jeb?"

The former Resistance leader had turned his back to his father, and was leaning heavily against the fireplace mantle. "You didn't know her. It doesn't matter now anyway."

"Son…"

"Look, you're going to do what you think is right. And if I know anything about you, you're going to make the choice I think is wrong. But it's your choice; your burden to bear. I won't stop you."

"I haven't made my mind up yet."

Finally Jeb had turned to face him, suddenly worn, aged par fast his annuals, and with a deflated, defeated look on his face. "Yes, you have. You didn't come here for me to convince you; you came here to convince _me._"

Vehemently, Cain shook his head and stood. "I haven't decided anything, son. And I certainly won't agree to the post if our relationship is going to suffer because of it."

Jeb had held up a hand. "No. I won't have you blaming me in the long-run, should something happen to Azkadellia or DG. You do what you need to do, Father, and I'll do the same." He'd walked to the cabin's front door and opened it without further comment, closing it the minute Cain had stepped across the threshold.

He'd ridden through a tumultuous thunderstorm to the palace, but it was a mere drizzle compared to the maelstrom churning within him.

By returning to the palace, was he essentially accepting the position? By returning, was he forgiving Azkadellia her transgressions?

Was he choosing other people's children over his own?

After stabling the horse in the barn, he'd walked the grounds around the tower, water dripping from his soaked hat brim, so deep in thought that he hadn't realized DG was sitting on the entrance steps each time he walked around the base. He'd thought about Adora; had Jeb been right in his assessment as to what she would have wanted? Would she think less of him if he took the position? Would she agree with DG and say he was the only one for the job?

Did the risks outweigh the benefits? Which _was_ the bigger risk--the inevitable murder of the Princess Royal, Heir to the throne--or the inevitable destruction of his relationship with his son?

Finally, on his third trip around the tower, DG had stepped out from the enclave and into the rain with him. "Life is always about the lesser of two evils," she said, raindrops caressing her face as tears had earlier. "I'm so very sorry I've put you in this position, Wyatt." She'd turned as quickly as she came, striding up the steps toward the tower entrance. "Consider the request rescinded."

He'd followed her inside, his damp clothing and shoes leaving streaks in their wake. "DG, wait."

She'd shaken her head, continuing to walk to her room. He'd hurried to catch up, and grabbed her arm, swinging her to face him. She'd shaken her head, damp tendrils clinging to her cheeks. "When you left, I realized that I should have honored your first answer. I shouldn't have guilt-tripped you into this. This…tyranny has been run with people using other people; exploiting relationships that were once sacred. I can't do that to you. I _won't._ I care too much about you to make you do something you're so obviously uncomfortable with."

"You're not making me do anything, DG," he'd said, lowering his chin and looking her straight in the eye. "You haven't ordered me, and you haven't exploited me. You asked. You gave me the choice."

"And then I ignored your answer. What friend does that?"

"The type of friend who knows what's right; who can see the big picture." He'd searched her eyes, his face serious. "Are you certain I'm the best man for the job?"

She'd nodded without hesitation. "That's why Az asked for you."

Confusion washed over him like the summer storm raging outside. "_Az_ asked for me?"

DG nodded again. "We were talking about security issues, and she said she'd feel safest with you."

It was then that it hit him that this Azkadellia was not the Azkadellia that had haunted his nightmares; this was not the Royal Family so many blamed for the perilous downfall of their homeland. They were just as frightened, just as shy and unsure as their people. And even in the darkest, most uncertain of times, the one person who should have been terrified of depending on anyone again--the one person who had been so abandoned by those she'd trusted--had the strength to find faith, and was bestowing that trust on him.

And perhaps, if he had come to this conclusion, his son--and the rest of the Zone--would find peace within it, too.

He'd started shadowing the Princess Royal the next day. He still questions himself and the decision he's made; still regrets the conversations that happened that night, the answers that never came.

She still has a habit of looking over her shoulder. But where her expressions were once of inevitability and doubt, waiting for him to leave, they are now serene, reborn.

As is he.

FIN

* * *

_A/N 2: Because it was bothering Bee, the quote I attributed to Adora here is actually said by Az to the Witch in the miniseries. I just wanted to play up the fact that "good" and "evil" tend to be a lot more similar than we think._

_Thanks for reading!_


	37. Past Imperfect

_Author's Notes: They ain't mine, 'cause if they were, they might have hope of a happy ending._

_It's almost an understatement to say this piece is dark. And angsty. Times a hundred. Fair warning._

_I am forever indebted to Alamo Girl, SpikesSweetie and Meredith Paris, because they put up with about forty-six versions of this story (not to mention a ridiculous amount of messed up tense changes) before I settled on the version I liked best. Your patience, insight and name-calling are priceless, girls. Thank you._

* * *

It was a past imperfect, one she could not run from.

It was flashes and sparks, bits of memory that seemed instinctual in nature, for they played easily in her mind without her bidding them to do so.

It was the unbearable weight of yesterday and tomorrow, of knowing a once vibrant world had dulled to the point of being unrecognizable. It was the unavoidable grey hue around everything, as though the heavens were kneeling in submission, losing their hopeful luster as they awaited their execution and descent into hell.

It was appropriate, given that the gods abandoned her and the Zone so long ago.

She remembered it all; sometimes in spurts, and others in inescapable and repetitive Technicolor visions that painfully rivaled the harshest punishment ever inflicted by the TDESPHTL.

It was the inability to escape any of it; that wishing and hoping for something different was bordering on insanity.

It was the recalled taste of roasted meat and steamed vegetables, and a shared smile over the edge of chipped coffee cups and lukewarm beverages. It was the feel of cool marble beneath her bare feet as she slid through empty corridors to spend the night in a room that was not hers. It was the stupidity in believing _this_ was where she was meant to be; that home truly was where her heart was. Finally, after years of running, she could stop.

It was the memory of blue eyes blazing in arousal, of wandering hands and reverent whispers. It was an unexpected laugh and forgoing a pillow in favor of a shoulder leaned on so many times. It was finding a balance between who she had been and who she could be if she let herself dive headfirst into him.

It was the smell of gunpowder; the jarring sound of repetitive explosions that shook not only the base of the castle, but the very foundation on which she'd tried to rebuild her life. It was the realization that everything around her was folding uncontrollably like a house of cards; she had gambled, and she had lost.

It was the automated response of ducking and covering, of an ex-Tin Man's senses being painfully sharp and reaching for his gun before fully waking. It was the terrified cries that roared hysterically through the castle, creating a disorienting cacophony when failing to harmonize with the exclamations of the advancing insurgency.

It was the ice that ran through her veins when she felt the inherent magic--the tie that once bound her to her family and her homeland--being violently, painfully extinguished. It was the panic that sent her shaking when one of the few surviving loyalist guards found them, and in the same breath told her that the royal family was dead and they had to get her out of the castle.

It was the urgency in his voice when he pushed her toward the servants' entrance and cried, "Go, DG! Run and _keep running_! Don't stop for anything!"

It was the memory of goose bumps prickling her skin as she fled through the rain. It was the frenzied dash during which she didn't process the sounds of war raging around her; where she did not smell the onslaught of burning flesh or hear the screams of the dying. It was the scared fury that built up in her throat as she flew through the maze, knowing she should turn around and make sure Cain was behind her. It was the encroaching, dark hopelessness that told her with absolute certainty that if she stopped, even to take half a breath, it would be her last.

It was the burning in her legs as she traversed the hills at Finaqua, and the horrific realization that she'd run straight for the cave that once held the Witch. It was the feel of the crumbling rock beneath her fingers as she fought her way through its dark confines, unsure if she should hide herself completely in the tomb, or again run from that which had caused so much pain.

It was the reverberating, deafening thunder of her heartbeat in her ears as she heard voices she'd thought were familiar, but not brave enough to confirm. It was the inability to move as the torchlight got closer and brighter; it was her fight response screaming unheard in her head, drowned into submission by the will to run. It was the sickening awareness that she could not ask her sister if that's what it felt like with the Witch in her head.

It was the caress of his gentle tone as he found her; embarrassment at the momentary but consuming ignorance that wherever she went--even if she didn't know the destination herself--he was bound to follow. It was the protective embrace that warmed her in the thunderstorm before he confirmed her worst nightmare--they were all dead.

Her mother. Her father. Her sister. Her tutor. Her guards. Her favorite cook who always hid a pastry for her when she was having "one of those days." All gone at the hands of a people who stormed the castle, wielding deadly weapons, unbridled hatred and seething distrust.

It was her violent fists against his body as she beat her denials out against him, fighting the world as it beat the wide eyed optimism out of _her. _It was his hand in her hair as she sobbed about the senseless of it all, as she wondered what would become of them.

It was his hitching breath, her cheek moving from beneath his chest, as he corrected her: what would become of _her._ It was her initial confusion being overwhelmed by stubborn refusal when he said they need to split up; that they needed to get as far away from each other as humanly possible if they had any chance of surviving.

It was being violently ill against the dirty, pebbled ground when she realized there was a bounty on their heads. That he was terrifyingly right. That she was truly, inescapably alone. That she'd finally been handed the independence she'd once longed so fervently for.

It was realizing nothing would make her feel any deader than she felt in that moment--not even the insurgents' guns or swords. It was knowing she should push him away; that forcing his soothing hand from her back might somehow make the necessary separation easier.

It was the memory of trying to be brave in the face of the crushing reality. It was the taste of salty tears, first on her lips and then on his as they said the most painful of goodbyes; when he told her to go to the edge of the realm and seek shelter at Ralph and Lorraine's. It was the dizzying, overwhelming sensation she felt as he told her hurriedly about stops that used to be safe along the Resistance's underground, about known loyalists with property where she could hide. It was feeling like she was cramming for a test she had no hope of passing.

It was the realization that this time, he truly wouldn't be able to help.

It was the heavy, cold metal in the palm of her hand as he pressed his gun into her fingers and urged her not to be seen--and if she was, to shoot first and worry later.

It was the part of herself she left inside the cave when she headed west and he went north.

It was the painful scraping of thorny bushes on her calves as she traversed the densest part of the forests that framed the Zone. It was her haggard reflection in the small side stream as she tried to wash the incalculable days, and the survivor's guilt, from her body.

It was the exhausted relief she felt when she finally saw the familiar cabin laid out before her in the tiny valley. It was seeing a feeble beacon and lighthouse trying to light the unfamiliar path, trying to reach her. It was the disappointment at realizing she was completely unreachable. She was already gone.

It was the burden of counting each day, of wishing she did not know how to count that high, of learning how to spot the quickest escape route or vantage point, regardless of her surroundings. It was memorizing the names and locations of sympathizers who hid her in cold, cramped rooms that were poorly illuminated, covered with fraying blankets that didn't even reach her knees. It was the unbearable knowledge that these rooms had been in use almost as long as she had been alive.

It was being unable to escape the irony that the places she laid her head were embodiments of her tired, tarnished soul.

It was the self-hatred that came with knowing that less than a year ago, she would have said she'd give anything to wave a magic wand and make the world go away. But magic had only brought heartache and destruction; had ripped her life from her and executed it before her eyes. She wanted it out of her so desperately that she felt unhinged beneath the intensity.

It was running in an endless circle, trying to accept that she would never learn how to live being constantly threatened: with imminent discovery, with encroaching insanity. It was the irritation borne of knowing there was nothing she could do to make the interminable seconds--for she could not bear to wait for an hour to pass as an accomplishment--tick by faster.

It was knowing she could not talk to herself, for fear of being overheard. She could not write in a diary, for fear of exposing not only herself, but those who had helped her--people she'd be sending to their deaths if the information ever got into the wrong hands. It was the disappointment as she realized she'd never want to recall all that had happened anyway, both before the coup and after. It would have most likely and finally--mercifully, she sometimes thought, for the weight of the world was a burden no man should bear--suffocate her, smothering the little spark of life that had carried her this far.

It was knowing that there was a war outside, but that the more pressing battles fell within the cramped crawlspace. It was waking up each day and wondering if today would be the day she finally waved the white flag. If she finally proved to the insurgents that she was just as weak a coward as the rest of her family.

It was the decision that feeling the pain, the despair, the despondency was harder than feeling nothing at all. It was the steely resolve she fought for to straighten her spine; the proclamation that she would no longer feel sorry for herself.

It was the realization that there were no pieces to pick up; that she had and would survive. One foot in front of the other. Heightened senses. Taking the first piece of advice Cain had ever bestowed upon her--_trust no one_--to heart. Focus on one thing and one thing alone: survival of the fittest. Live to see tomorrow; don't care about who won't see sunrise with you. She would do what was necessary. At all costs.

It was being unable to decide that whether the chance meeting two hundred and seventy-five days ago was a blessing or a curse. It was the vibration of boots on a wooden floor above her head. It was the once unsettling but automatic response of calmly preparing to fight; to know that should a hostile party descend the small, rickety stepladder into the basement that she'd come out the victor. No matter what.

It was living with the fact that she pointed his gun at him when he opened the trapdoor, and that it took her a full two minutes to lower it. It was the nauseous feeling that rolled through her when she admitted to herself that she didn't click the safety off for close to an hour, finger still resting insistently on the trigger. Just in case.

It was the understanding that she'd lived nearly three hundred days with only two thoughts: that one, and "what if."

It was the ache in her bones and the shaking of her hands when she allowed herself to acknowledge that he _was_ kneeling in front of her, war torn and blemished, but somehow miraculously alive. It was the acute pain when she realized this wasn't like Finaqua--he hadn't known where to find her. This was mere coincidence; most certainly _not_ fate.

It was the dry feeling in her mouth and shying away as he reached out to her, both physically and emotionally, and she could not reach back.

It was the relentless sullied feeling that occurred when she thought about the fact that she fell into him, painfully urgent in the field behind the safe house, for no other reason than she needed to feel alive again, even if it was for a blinding and fleeting moment. It was the self-loathing that accompanied thoughts of the clinical detachment of the sex that night--for it was definitely not lovemaking--the removal of only necessary pieces of clothing, the fact that she kept her eyes wrenched shut and focused only on animalistic release.

It was the guilty rush of tears when she realized he understood why she felt safer on the dingy mattress in the crawlspace than she would have been curled into him.

It was the rocking comprehension that she'd never committed herself fully to him, and that was why it was so easy to walk away.

It was the hollow resolve sitting leaden in the pit of her stomach when she knew exactly which path to send him down, for she knew the routes as well as the back of her hand. It was the chillingly cool, detached feeling--colder than the ice that had frozen her solid the night of the coup, not yet thawed--as she watched him ride away just after midnight.

It was the feeling of failure when the simmering flash of anger lit beneath her feet and forced her to the edge of one of the safe house property lines, gun loaded and at the ready. It was the abhorrent declaration that she'd gone down without a fight, and that was an insult of the highest order; preposterous and unacceptable. That was a fate worse than any death she might face.

It was the inevitable truth that they'd kill her on sight as soon as she crossed enemy lines. It was hoping she'd get to take a few out in the process; even the score a little bit. It was the readiness to fight back. Again at all costs.

It was the heart stopping realization that she'd died the same night her family did. She was no longer the DG they--or _she_--knew. She was a shell of her former self; out to save only her own hide. Unable to care about those around her, those who had been so loyal and giving of themselves. Unable to be diplomatic or conciliatory, because fiery rage felt so much better than cold hopelessness in the dark, dank crawlspace.

It was the terrifying acknowledgment that she'd turned into another Sorceress.

It was an angry retreat back to the safe house, and the slamming of the ladder against the lowered ceiling as she again second guessed herself. It was the broken finger she suffered slamming her hand into the concrete barrier separating her from both life and death.

It was realizing she'd prefer the latter at this point.

It was the numbing realization that she, once the most emotional of people, didn't even have the instinct to cry. This was hell, and she just needed to deal with it.

It was the sinking certainty she felt when her period didn't come that month. Or the next. It was the horrible confirmation when her formerly--religiously--flat stomach began to swell. It was the biting fury at the conclusion that the gods truly had abandoned her, and demons were dancing in anticipation around her waiting grave, for this could be nothing other than a strangling curse. It was the icy hatred at her own stupidity. At her constant failures.

At realizing the insurgents had been right--she _was_ completely useless.

It was the destructive nature of the coldhearted debate, and the way she roundly ignored it. Of knowing there was no way she cold survive lugging a child between outposts. Of the repetitive assertion that the child was probably better off never being born. It was her steely façade momentarily cracking as she felt the first kick.

It was the stalwart resolve as she decided to ignore the life inside her--for how could it be alive when she was dead--and just count the days until she could be done with this latest mistake.

It was the decision she ultimately made as rebel forces circled the small cabin, and then stormed the building, beating her protectors for information.

It was the disconnected air she kept even through the hardest part of her labor--giving birth on that dingy but comfortably familiar mattress, remaining mostly silent and almost disinterested through the pain and the pushing. It was reading the concern in the loyalist woman's eyes when she handed DG a baby girl--Cain's baby girl--and she refused to look the infant in the eye.

It was the one thought running an endless loop through her head: _trust no one. At all costs._

It was the gentle prompting that the little angel needed a name. It was the unexpected rush of forgotten tears as she registered the nickname, as she finally wanted to ask for those she could not have; those who had been lost to her over a year before.

It was the quick, harsh blinking away of those emotions; the retreat into being cool and calculating as she called the child Spencer Aurora. It was the knowledge she kept hidden from the midwife that Spencer had been her adopted last name on the Other Side. It was the warning contained within the moniker; urging the child never to look to the horizon and wish for something better, as this torment was probably all that lay at the end of the yellow brick road.

It was the swift passing of the swaddled infant to the midwife, the ignoring of the baby's wails. The hope that the child hadn't inherited enough of her parents' features and would never favor one over the other; that way, the world wouldn't know who she was. That way, she wouldn't be a target as her parents had been, and could live the normal life her new family had probably killed people to preserve. At least she'd be safer with the lions in the den than accompanying Daniel--in the guise of DG--into battle.

It was the faint tapping sound as the woman ascended the staircase and shut the trapdoor before walking to her horse and taking the child to be dropped anonymously on the orphanage steps.

It was cleaning herself up, packing her lone parcel a few days later, and setting out on one final journey. It was the bitterness that tainted her tongue when she wondered how she'd ever been so naïve to think anything in this world--on this side or any other--could be an adventure.

It was the resolve that her instinct to run had been right. Just. She'd fought it for too long. Now was the time to finally give in.

It was the faint scratching of the end of her toothbrush--which she'd carved into a shank of sorts--as she wrote one word to Cain in the clay wall in her last safe house.

_Goodbye._

It was the order to the patriarch of the last loyalist family that he was to spread the rumor that she had killed herself by jumping into the crack of the O.Z. It was the knowledge that once Cain heard the news, he could decide whether or not it was safe for the rest of the sympathizers to come out of hiding. It was the knowledge that with the confirmation she was dead, perhaps he could live the life she'd taken from him so many times.

It was asking one more favor of Ralph and Lorraine by way of the railroad; get her Ahamo's balloon. Thankfully, DeMilo had made a killing scavenging through the remnants of the House of Gale, and Ralph negotiated its purchase for her.

It was waiting for a violent nighttime thunderstorm as cover to finally leave. It was waiting for a lightning strike as an appropriate end to her journey, sending her down in flames to meet the demons who'd plagued her for an eternity, who'd stalked her soul all these months.

It was slipping through to the Other Side; the smell of exhaust and freshly cut lawns curling acridly through her nostrils. It was the relieved clarity she felt when she started putting distance between her and the balloon. Between her and her tarnished history.

It was the assumption of yet another new name, a new home, a familiar job. It was the daily reminders that she should not look toward the horizon, for it would only remind her of what should not have been, what shall never be.

It was the bruises that ached for days after she was deposited back on the Other Side, as she finally acknowledged and treated the longstanding injuries of both mind and body. It was the first time she let herself cry since the night of the coup; the wracking sobs that buckled her knees and threw her against the chipped tile of the shower stall.

It was the resignation that it would forever be a past imperfect, but one that she'd somehow survived.

It was the question as to whether or not it would be a similarly insufficient future.

It was the answer she did not have.

FIN


	38. Anno Domine

_Author's Notes: Took a little break from NaNo to submit this piece for the latest last quote challenge at LJ's tm_challenge community. Enjoy!_

* * *

Azkadellia stood in front of one of the large windows that traversed the apex of the Northern Palace, watching as the battle raged loudly before her.

The cacophony of sound rose toward her, and she heard urgent cries for the artillery men to hurry with reloading; the opposition would surely take advantage of any momentary lull. Piercing missiles arced through the air, launched with military precision from behind unreliable bunkers. Hours had ticked by, and she'd watched two distinct heads--one blond, one brunette--pop above the barriers, waiting for impact behind enemy lines. They'd ducked quickly down again, and even without the corresponding noise, she'd seen these generals hurriedly issuing orders to their troops and drawing their battle plan in the snow with broken branches.

War had been declared in her front yard, once again laid out before her feet. Both sides had proclaimed, with Ozma as their witness, they would fight to the death.

She had no doubt that was true.

As the afternoon had worn on, Azkadellia had seen both armies call out to their challengers to surrender; that it was the only option. She'd been shocked to see one soldier defect; had seen him run at full speed across the battleground and breathlessly swear his allegiance to the House of Gale. She'd seen the Troop Commander look him over carefully, suspiciously, before nodding and ordering him to fortify their eastern blockade.

It was a game of push-and-pull, a fight that had started well before midday and threatened to continue as the winter suns huddled with the horizon.

Behind her, she heard footfalls, and turned to identify the newcomer before turning her attention back to the battle.

He was enthralled by the war raging below them. She knew the feeling; her stomach had been in anticipatory knots as she watched. "Do we have a winner?"

"Not yet." She pointed to the bunker defending the palace. "They've been pinpoint accurate in their precision today. They've done a lot of damage. Made them," she motioned to the opposition, "retreat and reestablish their position further south. I think the tide is turning. Should be over soon."

He scratched thoughtfully at his chin, and then pointed to the opposition leader. "I don't know. He's powerful. Smart. And driven, since his son defected. He's probably coming up with a new plan of attack as we speak."

Azkadellia shook her head. "Nonsense. They couldn't hit an elephant at this distance. It's over. He needs to concede defeat."

"When have you ever seen him concede defeat?"

She had to chuckle. "That's true."

He put a fatherly hand on her shoulder. The still unfamiliar feeling--and the window's reflection of a familiarity she'd long forgotten--startled her slightly, and she hoped he didn't feel her flinch. "Why aren't you out there with them?"

She felt the incredulous look loosen her features and discomfort slightly. "You think I want to be out there, _in the snow_, smack dab in the middle of the Great Snowball Fight of the OZ? In between DG and Wyatt Cain? I think you spent a little too much time in the Unwanted, Daddy."

Their attention was drawn back outside by a raucous yell. Azkadellia gasped as the rebellion charged brazenly across the field, ignoring stinging snowballs as they hit reddened faces. They breached and leveled DG's fort, sending her army of two chambermaids, a cook, Glitch and Jeb Cain scattering, and leaving her to take the full impact of a determined Cain.

Azkadellia had to laugh as DG refused to surrender, running with unbridled energy around the pile of snow that had once been her fort, eluding capture. Finally, Cain caught her about the waist and gently threw her into a snow bank.

The eldest princess smiled and stepped away from the window, gathering blankets and towels to dry off both armies before dinner, when DG--with one final, stubborn, frustrated flail of her arms--finally surrendered. Her opponent reached out a hand to help her to her feet, and though Az thought for a moment DG might pull the former Tin Man into the snow beside her, the brunette got to her feet and pressed a gentle kiss to Cain's lips.

Defeat had never tasted so good.

FIN

* * *

_A/N 2: Hey, look, Ma! Fluff! :)_


	39. Drabble On

_Author's Notes: The following drabbles were written in response to the fall/winter challenge over on Live Journal's TM Challenge community. There are 29 100 word pieces, seven 200 word pieces and eight 300 word pieces. Some of them do reference other works; I've notated them as necessary._

_More rambling at the end. _

* * *

_Conceit (200):_

**Hubris**

In her preparations for the Eclipse, she had realized just how powerful she was.

She'd always known her magic was inherently strong--how else could one explain her success at surviving for half a millennia; at taking advantage of a split second decision by a frightened little girl? How else could one understand her chameleon-like ability, fooling her host's family into non-action? Into convincing once steadfast loyalists that _she_ was the future, that they had been altogether deceived and abandoned by a useless monarch?

Nothing would stand in her way. Nothing _could_ stand in her way. Those who surrounded her were insignificant mortals who could not fathom the depth of her strength; simpletons who had no choice but to cower beneath the onslaught of the inevitable.

She had never found a true enemy, one capable of inducing fear. Yes, there had been those stupidly blind enough to think they could defeat her, but their resistance had been little more than a fool's lullaby; a lie they told themselves to give meaning to an inconsequential existence.

It was ultimately that conceit, that hubris, that was her downfall. She'd become sightless, and had forgotten about the magic of humanity: bravery, hope, faith.

Love.

* * *

_Faith (100):_

**Lost**

He has attended too many funerals in his life. He's stood in too many graveyards; watched an innumerable number of caskets disappear into the ground. He's watched countless mothers weeping. He's smelled an infinite amount of baby's breath and lilies; heard an incalculable number of priests claim there is a greater plan, and that should somehow make the loss easier.

But it is at this funeral--the one for the youngest princess, only two annuals older than Jeb--when he realizes he doesn't hate the funerals themselves. He hates the fickle friend faith is--and despises that he once bought into the lie.

* * *

_Humility (100):_

**Hero**

None of them--not the Tin Man, her former Advisor, the Resistance leader or the empathic Viewer--want any commendations for their role in the Sorceress's downfall. They want no recognition, not even the simplest pat on the back.

She does not understand it. They risked their lives time and again; have been shot, undergone invasive surgery, were trapped in so many different ways. They deserve to be honored. They deserve to be called heroes. The realm deserves to know what they've accomplished.

Her confusion must be obvious, for DG quietly explains they want what a Queen cannot give them: untainted pasts.

* * *

_Redemption (100):_

**Mercy**

Azkadellia is more torn after the Eclipse than she has ever been. She had voiced the thought to the Witch once--_even the most hated outcast still yearns for redemption in his heart_--but knows it is unfair for her to desire forgiveness.

But as much as she knows mercy is not a gift easily given, those touched by her darkest deeds realize it is much harder to continually relive the past than it is to look to the future. It is not absolution in its purest form, but is instead a newly forged path, one they--and she--can try to traverse together.

* * *

_Plead (300):_

**This is a post "Liar's Life" piece.

**Complicit**

Being an intelligent woman, she should have seen this coming.

She'd carefully constructed a plan to leave undetected. Memorize guard schedules. Alternate days and times of departure. Take differing routes. Arouse no suspicions. Maintain plausible deniability.

It had worked for months, but she should have known he'd eventually see through the lies; he knew her better than she knew herself. She should have known he was feigning sleep the night she slipped out of their bedroom; that he watched her leave, memorizing the path she took.

She should have known he'd follow her.

She should have expected the outrage and disbelief on his face when he saw the cabin's hidden occupants for the first time. She should have had his (rightfully) demanded explanation ready, not some pleading, incoherent jumble of excuses. She should have impressed upon him that she'd never wanted to be part of the plan, knowing how deeply it would hurt him, but there wasn't another option. She should have said that her hand shook uncontrollably--guiltily--when she signed DG's phony death certificate at Cain's request.

She should have told him how much she'd hated herself for being complicit in this deception; for betraying him--the most precious thing in the world to her. She should have told him that keeping this secret had nearly broken her; listed how many times she had nearly told him the truth because he deserved that--so much more--from her.

She should have expected the biting hatred to his voice when he said he didn't want to hear her justifications. She should have expected the piercing hurt in his eyes when he called her a liar, asking how _she,_ of all people, could do this to him.

She should have been prepared for him to say he never wanted to see her again.

She wasn't.

* * *

_Loop (100)_

**They Call Him Glitch**

He knows only a few things for sure. They call him Glitch. He is a good, loyal man. He has an adventurous spirit; lives to discover the unknown. He is talented; more gifted than many could ever comprehend.

But it is this last piece of information that throws him for the worst kind of loop. Though he's wanted nothing more than confirmation of his long held truths, the notion that it was an idea from _his _brain that could destroy his home and this group he's come to think of as family, makes him wish he knew nothing at all.

* * *

_Restless (200):_

**Freedom**

Nobody else seems to notice how she is itching to break free.

Nobody seems to notice her constantly bouncing feet; always moving as though they are revving to leave, uncaring as to whether she wishes to follow. Her knuckles are frequently white as she grips the armrests of the chairs she sits in, as though she is physically restraining herself from rushing for the nearest exit.

Nobody seems to notice how, without fail, her eyes search for the largest window in any given room, and how her gaze lingers wistfully on the pane, as though she is memorizing the landscape and plotting her path out of this existence; as though she is imagining all the places she could explore.

Nobody seems to notice how her toes remain in the overgrown grasses or how her dark head tilts back any time the wind blows, as though she is listening to the Zone; as though it eases her fears and tells her it will cradle her on her journey, accepting her as so many others seemingly do not.

Nobody seems to notice, except her parents. They cannot sentence her again--not like they did when the Witch possessed her--so they let her go.

* * *

_Squander (100):_

**This is a post "Liar's Life"/"Complicit" piece.

**No Such Thing**

As he urges the horse into a furious gallop, Jeb hears DG calling his name; hears his father brokenly calling out for him to stop. He hears Ainsley's panicked plea that he doesn't understand.

But he does. He understands that they are liars, that _they_ are the ones who do not comprehend what it is to be faithful, truthful. To be a family.

He understands that he's wasted an incomprehensible amount of time worrying over other people's losses; that he should have been concerned with his own stupidity in foolishly believing there was such a thing as a happy ending.

* * *

_Foreshadow (200):_

**Masquerade**

"Your son Jeb still lives. I can feel it."

Somehow, the words are more excruciating than the sight of Adora's grave, and Cain wants to shake Raw; wants to demand why he should believe the obvious lie masquerading as a prediction. If the Viewer could truly feel life and death, why hadn't he warned Cain about what lay beyond the white elm? Why hadn't he prepared him to face his worst nightmare?

The next thought is unbidden and unwelcome. If the warning had been issued, would Cain have even listened? Would he have still run toward the memory of hazel eyes and blonde hair? Would have he stopped to kill the spark of hope that had somehow flared within him?

Or has the crazy, unwavering faith DG has in spades finally pierced his hopelessly tarnished armor?

This time, Raw does not need to say a thing. Cain knows he would have still run like the madman Glitch and DG released from the suit. Still would have prayed for a miracle. And that's the worst part.

It is too much to consider, and he turns away from the now helpful and empathetic hand, voice and soul cold. "You feel too much."

* * *

_Discordance (100):_

**Sacrifice**

She doesn't know why he's fighting her.

He should understand that protecting DG--the Emerald, the O.Z.--at all costs is the only thing that matters now. He should know that his going into hiding is the only way she can ensure everyone's protection.

Besides that, he should _want _to leave; to get as far away from her as possible. After all, it was her decision not to use her power to challenge the Witch that led to so many deaths.

And then she sees it: he's afraid to leave her unguarded.

He doesn't understand that she died when her daughters did.

* * *

_Flight (300):_

**Friend and Foe**

Vy-Sor has been a constantly faithful servant.

Since his appointment, he's never questioned the Sorceress's orders, even when they seemed contradictory to previous edicts. He protects her from the whispers of the army; does not flinch when she wields her frighteningly deadly power.

He has never once shared his reservations, the most recent of which occurred when the Longcoats captured the former Queen's advisor. Vy-Sor had watched the Sorceress's entire visage change as Ambrose was shackled and forcibly removed to the Alchemist's operating room; as he screamed at her to remember who he was--who _she_ was. Her long dead eyes had sparked with pained recognition, and her claw-like nails had pierced her palms as she seemingly fought herself from reaching toward the prisoner. And for a fleeting moment, Vy-Sor had thought the late afternoon sunlight caught never before seen tears in her eyes; she'd turned away before he could be certain he'd seen anything.

He has never complained when she calls for him in the middle of the night, issuing orders in differing voices, as though there are two people living within her.

But now, with what she is telling him to do, he is forced to ask, "Sorceress, are you certain that's the best course of action?"

Somehow, she seems young and frail; if he didn't know better, he'd say she seems vulnerable. She does not look at him, instead furiously scanning the room, as though expecting someone to discover her deception and sentence her to eternity with the monsters lurking in the shadows. "Please, Vy-Sor," she finally whispers, "just do as I ask. Quickly, and without a word to anyone."

He has never hesitated, and will not do so now. He hears her relieved sigh as he bows and leaves, heading to the prison ward to release Ambrose.

* * *

_Elastic (300):_

**Variations on a Theme**

Had she not been elbow-deep in the previously grinding engine, DG would have been amused at the incredulous looks on the faces of the people who surrounded her.

As it was, she was much too busy tinkering with the transmission and trying to avoid the angrily squirting stream of oil to realize just how slack jawed both her guards and the villagers were as they watched her--a Crown Princess, for Ozma's sake--fix the transport vehicle.

She huffed her annoyance as an insistent strand of hair once again impeded her vision, and called out from beneath the hood. "Anybody got anything I can pull my hair back with?"

In her peripheral vision, she saw a pair of boots approach, and felt a pair of hands gently gather her hair into a messy but useful ponytail. Surprised, she finally stopped working and glanced up, eyebrows rising as she saw Cain standing next to her. "Tourniquet," he explained. "Had one in the med kit."

DG smiled her thanks before returning her attention to the car. Cain put a steadying hand on her hip as she went up on her tiptoes, searching for a better angle to work from. "How's it going?"

She sighed, exasperated. "This thing is a piece of shit," she proclaimed--too loudly, if the shocked, offended gasps from the surrounding mothers was any indication.

Cain chuckled softly. "There's a bet going that you won't get it fixed."

DG smirked, finally looking up at him. "Yeah? How much?"

"Forty-seven platinums."

"How much did you put in?"

He discreetly squeezed her waist. "I learned a long time ago never to bet against you, Princess."

"Good man." She straightened after hearing a recognizable _click_ from the engine's depths, and when it turned over, she grinned and proudly turned to her audience. "Pay up, boys."

* * *

_Attentive (100):_

**Reasons Why**

She knew the only reason he interacted with her was because it was his assignment.

She knew no one had volunteered for the job; that this was being forced upon him. She knew his inquiries as to her health or mood were forced politeness; he asked because it was his duty, not because he cared. She knew he sat with, and opened the door for, her only because he was searching for those who could harm her.

It did not stop her from enjoying the company, for he was the only person outside her family who spent time with her.

* * *

_Conqueror (100):_

**Sentenced**

More people should have realized Cain returned to the forest in the days after the Eclipse, for he had always been a man of his word.

He had intended on releasing the Longcoat, but as he stood and listened to the rain rap against the tin suit, he realized there _was_ no better penalty than watching a sworn enemy walking away, free to live a life once so cruelly interrupted.

Zero had defeated many people--Cain among them--but this was one war he would never win.

Cain left him trapped, and walked out of the forest, the freest he'd ever been.

* * *

_Rattled (100):_

**Doubting Thomas**

When Cain explained how he had teamed up with an Other Sider to defeat the Sorceress, Jeb thought he must have heard wrong.

His father had trained him to "trust no one," and that "if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is." He couldn't fathom that his father believed DG--a slip of a girl who didn't know the first thing about the Zone--and realized that he was looking at a true stranger.

The apprentice had replaced the teacher. Jeb was no longer hopelessly optimistic; he was cold and doubtful, and wondered when he'd forgotten how to dream.

* * *

_Castaway (100):_

**Ship to Shore**

The word _family _has never been so detached. They are all unconnected islands, unable to see the hopeful beacon of a lighthouse through the impenetrable fog borne of fifteen annuals of separation.

The impulsive familiarity they felt immediately after the Eclipse has long disappeared. They are each lost in their own thoughts, unable to cross the great chasm that divides them. There is much to be explained, discovered, shared, but they are hopelessly without the right words. They are connected only in their discomfort, and the uncomfortable silence lingers, growing unchecked between them; _that_ is the only thing they share.

* * *

_Cavort (100):_

**Breakable**

The rebukes are gentle but numerous: "Princesses don't slide down banisters, DG." "It's inappropriate to walk the palace barefoot, DG, especially when we have guests." "I'm sure _Hit Me With Your Best Shot_ is a lovely song, my angel, but the staff has more important things to do than harmonize with you."

She outright refuses to listen, and it's starting to wear on her mother's already frayed nerves. There is an expectation of decorum. The rules are to be at the very least respected, if not explicitly followed.

She will learn in time that rules were meant to be broken.

* * *

_Covet (100):_

**Yield**

He wants everything he cannot have.

A smarter, stronger man would have backed away from this dangerous situation long before now. But, as the saying goes, she is the best kind of sin and the worst kind of temptation. She is a siren's song, a fierce undertow, and he is helpless to avoid her.

But even as he has acknowledged the desire, he cannot yield to it just yet. So he watches from afar, content in the knowledge that at the very least, she has breathed life back into a long dead man, and their "one day" will come eventually.

* * *

_Sunrise (100):_

**Survive**

Long after the suns emerged from behind the moon--long after they had gone down and risen again--the Resistance fighters still circled the tower, unwilling and unable to believe the Sorceress had fallen; that the war was actually over.

They had seen the giant, looming specter of the old hag; had seen her disintegrate beneath the encompassing beam. They'd heard the story of the Witch's defeat from DG herself. But still they sat, weapons at the ready, so trained in survival that they'd forgotten how to prepare for a future.

So trained in staying alive that they'd forgotten how to _live_.

* * *

_Urchin (200):_

**Tuesday's Child**

Each Tuesday was filled with story time, cutting the crusts off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and piggybacks around the overgrown backyard.

Each Tuesday was filled with jubilant laughter, sing-alongs where she made things up if she couldn't remember all the lyrics, rocking chairs and fights over who could hug her hello first.

Tuesdays meant taking home dozens of messy finger paintings, remembering how to make her doll spin, and negotiating with the more stubborn children that yes, they did need to both bathe _and_ eat their vegetables.

Tuesdays were a welcome break from the brutal insanity of reclamation and reconstruction. Tuesdays reminded her that there was still innocence in the torn O.Z. There was still hope.

Understandably, the children had been hesitant toward her at the beginning. She was a stranger, and therefore untrustworthy. She'd won them over--and amused Cain to no end--by slipping off her socks, drawing faces with a ballpoint pen, and putting on an impromptu puppet show.

She needed Tuesdays as much as they did. She needed the infectious giggles, the wide grins, the exuberant enthusiasm. The reminder that she didn't have to be a princess to change people's lives; she just needed to be herself.

* * *

_Predatory (100):_

**Hunter**

She'd seen that look in his eyes before; heard that growl in his voice numerous times. She'd been on the receiving end of his appraisal long before today, had watched him slide toward her, seemingly uninterested and neutral. But she knew better; knew _exactly_ what he was thinking, especially with that knowing, lilting half-smile to his face.

She'd let him take the lead before, but now, she coyly crooked a finger and beckoned her to him. The hunter became the hunted; the player became the master.

She found she didn't much care as he pushed her against her bedroom door.

* * *

_Disheveled (100):_

**Broken**

She sees glimpses of the disheveled man she let out of the suit. The haunted look in his eyes; the flinching step back if someone approaches too quickly or loudly. His shoulders roll forward now where they did not before, a sign of the heavy burden that came with the Iron Maiden's bolted door. He is distrustful, colder. Broken.

Tarnished.

The man that went into the suit is not the same one who came out. She understands that.

It doesn't change the way she feels about him. He has survived where others have succumbed, and she loves him for it.

* * *

_Stalemate (100):_

**Balance**

They are in an endless standoff, frozen in place. Haunted by the memory of those they've failed.

They feel they do not deserve to move forward; breaking this stalemate and progressing onward is salve on a wound that should never heal. They cannot--should not--be happy in the face of the destruction they've caused.

Others tell them their loved ones would want them to live life, not squander this second chance. They say it is more insulting to stay forever in the shadows and reject the renewing sunshine.

But they do not know how to balance this, so they stand still.

* * *

_Trollop (300):_

**Hindsight**

There was apparently an Other Side saying that hindsight was 20/20.

In Azkadellia's opinion, it was just a bitch.

Better vision wouldn't have helped anyway; she'd been blinded with overprotective rage the minute the palace had started buzzing with the news that Wyatt Cain had returned--and had brought a date for her parents' vow renewal.

Seeing Cain with the tall, shapely blonde, and seeing him joke and wrap a familiar arm around her, had made Azkadellia clench her fists so tightly that she broke the stems on the bouquet she was holding. Watching him introduce the trollop to DG--and watching her wonderful, sensitive baby sister warmly greet the woman like they were old friends--had made Az clench her jaw so tightly it hurt.

Seeing Cain trail a finger down DG's cheek one minute and dance with the blonde the next finally broke her resolve.

Through gritted teeth, Azkadellia curtly told him she needed to speak to him in private, and "ushered" him into the palace courtyard.

She let him have it.

It got a little hazy after that. All Azkadellia knew was that she'd furiously demanded to know just who the hell Cain thought he was, bringing this…_tart_…when DG had been in love with him _forever_; that she'd been anxiously anticipating his return for _weeks_. Azkadellia had yelled until she ran out of breath.

And then the world stopped making sense altogether.

Hours and a few strong drinks later, she still couldn't fully comprehend the explanation. The blonde was apparently _Jeb_ Cain's girlfriend, and it had been DG's idea for his father to bring her after the two Resistance fighters had a falling out. What was more, Cain had declared his feelings for DG before he left; they'd planned on telling the family tomorrow.

It was official. Hindsight was useless.

* * *

_Snowflakes (100):_

**Stolen Innocence**

"Bad things happen here. Bad things."

The snow had hidden the sullied history from the humans' eyes, but he'd known the minute his paws met ground that only heartbreak--not the answers they sought--lay ahead. He'd been bombarded with feelings of despair, betrayal, anger. Hopelessness. Stolen innocence and chances lost.

Just when he'd thought things couldn't get any worse, she'd asked him to tell her the truth. He'd wanted nothing more than to return the favor she'd bestowed on him--saving him. But he could not. Instead, Raw put a paw to the mirror and prayed DG knew how sorry he was.

* * *

_Yaw (100):_

**A Change Will Do You Good**

It was well known that Princess DG tended to deviate from her set schedule.

It was also well known that she didn't change the game plan on a whim, even if she desperately needed a break. The modifications came because they were necessary: spending more time with a wounded soldier, helping an widowed mother cook dinner for her unruly brood. Painstakingly choosing which flowers to lay on the graves of those lost during the Sorceress's reign.

It was well known that Princess DG wasn't anything the Zone had seen before.

It was well known that they loved her for it.

* * *

_Ascetic (300):_

**Out of the Fabric of Nothingness**

Maria von Trapp would have been proud.

As she'd wandered the palace during one of her sleepless nights, she'd thought back on her weekly visit to the orphanage, when the children had breathlessly asked her about the Other Side. She'd told them about everything she'd once taken for granted: television, cell phones, iPods. But they'd been especially fascinated with the holidays.

More specifically, Halloween.

She'd shared their enthusiasm; it had always been her favorite time of year. She'd talked about her best costumes: wrapping up in tin foil and going as leftovers; dressing as Batman because he was, obviously, cooler than the other superheroes.

And when the children asked if they could have Halloween, too--even though it was the beginning of February--DG had immediately promised them they could.

In the hours that followed, she'd realized it was bordering on a logistical nightmare. She'd worried about how she could make costumes; in the post-Eclipse OZ, basic items--let alone that much fabric--were in short supply. But as she'd walked the hallway, she'd seen the curtains billowing in the open windows, calling to her and offering their services. Even the most mundane of items was looking for a second chance.

By first light, she had sewn four princess costumes and two respectable cowboy outfits.

The idea quickly caught fire with both palace residents and staff alike. Her mother turned out to be mighty handy with a sewing needle, and Az and Ahamo coordinated with the cook to create a wide array of treats. Cain had even gotten into the spirit, lending DG his fedora and overcoat so she could dress like a Tin Man.

And though the children thought their haul of cookies and small cakes was the ultimate bounty, it was their delighted laughter and echoing footfalls that were the real treats.

* * *

_Titanic (100):_

**Start**

It wasn't Azkadellia who needed comfort in the months after the Eclipse. DG was nearly inconsolable as she mourned her Other Side life. She'd cried herself to sleep nearly every night, until Azkadellia said there must have been _something_ she didn't miss.

It had taken DG a little while to come up with a list, but she had. And, much to Azkadellia's relief, she always smiled when she added to it.

That stupid _Titanic_ song. Ticket wielding cops. Talk show pundits. A-Rod. April 15th. Watching the Food Network while hungry.

She was far from healed, but it was a start.

* * *

_Hustle (100):_

**Family Tradition**

He still remembers the buzzing of the lone light bulb in the small crawlspace, and how it swung like a pendulum above his head.

He still remembers how his mother kept her voice calm as she hurried him inside, even as she watched his father unlock the gun safe and pull out shotguns and shells. "Stay in here until I come and get you, all right?"

He still remembers the sounds outside, and realizing his parents weren't backing down--had _never _shied away from a fight.

He still remembers reaching for the door, prepared to live up to the Cain name.

* * *

_Coda (100):_

**Amazing Grace**

DG has always been a singer. Popsicle used to tease her that she'd even hummed in her sleep. But there is one piece she's been unable to bring herself to even listen to, let alone sing. The poignant power of "Amazing Grace" has never escaped her; has never failed in bringing her to tears. It holds an inescapable truth, one she cannot bear witness.

When she begins to sing it at Jeb Cain's funeral, it is a low and mournful lament, and she desperately wishes it wasn't painfully appropriate for this to be the first time she's said the words.

* * *

_Taboo (100):_

**Inevitable**

When they are alone--when she looks up at him with those eyes, her dark hair fanning out over his bare chest, or when she slides behind him in the small bathroom as though they've been doing it forever and a day--he forgets why they are keeping this development in their relationship to themselves.

But when he sees her with her mother and sister, talking with foreign dignitaries and nobles-- men who are not irreparably broken like he is--he remembers that, to the rest of the world, she is royalty and he is a commoner, and this will inevitably have to end.

* * *

_Dilapidated (200):_

**What Is Now and What Will Forever Be**

She goes back to the Other Side only once, and stands for an hour at the end of the dirt road leading to the place once called home. Despite the harsh reality the spring sunshine highlights, she does not see shattered windows, dulled paint. She doesn't see split siding, splintered fences or out of control cobwebs.

She sees learning to ride a bike without training wheels. She sees climbing a ladder to sneak back in from Billy Jackson's party in the woods behind his house. She sees Christmases and Easter egg hunts and a graduation party where her (admittedly wary) parents bestowed a much desired motorcycle on her. She sees games of catch that lasted far beyond sunset; study sessions on the porch swing as her mother tried to help her prepare for a much maligned geography test. She sees a familiar patrol car pass by each night, protecting and serving even if he didn't necessarily like it.

She does not see lies or a tornado or approaching Longcoats. She does not see robots or a princess. She sees protective strength and unconditional, unrelenting love.

She sees the person she has become.

She sees the person she will forever be.

* * *

_Collusion (100):_

**This takes place post "Liar's Life"/"Complicit"/"No Such Thing"

**Whiskey Lullaby**

It is only after he's laid the second bottle of whiskey in front of the night's best customer that the bartender understands why the young man is so intent on drinking himself into a stupor.

He'd been quiet when he first came in, speaking only when he ordered. But the alcohol eventually loosened Jeb's tongue, and Ben wishes he could answer the young man's questions as to why his father and girlfriend colluded together; why they thought it was acceptable to rebuild their fractured relationship on a foundation of lies.

But there is no reason for that kind of betrayal.

* * *

_Sickness (100):_

**The One**

He thanks his lucky stars that no one seems concerned he's the one to alert them to her fever--something he'd only know if they'd been sharing chambers, given how her illness has seemingly come out of nowhere.

He does not move from her bedside as the doctors try to figure out what is ailing her. He is the one who holds her hand, whispers into her hair, presses cool cloths to her forehead. He is the one who changes her bedclothes and sheets when she's soaked them through.

He is the one she smiles at when she eventually wakes up.

* * *

_Piety (100):_

**The reference to St. Glinda's and faces of saints is for my girl, Bee.

**Absolution**

The routine is the same. Wake, bathe, eat.

Sit in the back pew in St. Glinda's Cathedral. Stare at the stained glass windows and faces of saints. Drop a six pence in the collection plate. Watch people light candles for people she killed. Listen to the vicar.

She doesn't sing with the choir. She does not take communion or confession.

She watches baptisms and wishes for absolution. Wishes to believe in gods who could forgive her for her transgressions. Wishes to believe anyone could accept her as a sheep long lost from the herd.

She cannot. So she just sits.

* * *

_Cadence (100):_

**Never Again**

The sound of the marching Longcoats echoes like a disorienting cacophony around him, and after Cain motions for him to follow, Glitch has a flash of the last time he heard orders being barked out around him; heavy boots striking impacted dirt.

His wavering orders to Azkadellia and her minions. His pleas as they dragged him to the medical ward. His questions as to who and where he was after the anesthesia wore off.

As Cain approaches the distracted army, Glitch whispers two words, and prepares to exact the revenge that has eluded him for so many annuals.

Never again.

* * *

_Arcane (300)_

**This piece takes place in the "Past Imperfect" universe. And no, nobody knows who she is.

**Weight of the World**

He is annoyed even before he walks in the door to the interrogation room. Theirs in an endless cycle he is tired of revisiting: she's picked up in the Sin District for soliciting and he has to deal with her unwavering bullshit.

Her voice is like grating sandpaper on his nerves. "Well, look who it is. You miss me?"

He sits down at the table and uncaps his pen. "What alias are we using tonight?"

She shrugs disinterestedly, examining her frayed cuticles. "I'm too tired to be creative. You think of one."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Just tell me one thing."

"Yes, I do have a law enforcement discount."

He sighs. "Why are you out there? You could do a hundred other things, and you do…_this_."

She raises an eyebrow. "Does it matter?"

"It does to me," he replies, and she rolls her eyes, though it's not as annoyingly dismissive as she's been before. He tries again. "Don't you have anybody to take care of you? To worry about you?"

She laughs humorlessly. "Are you offering, Tin Man?"

She can't be more than twenty annuals, and yet she carries the weight of the world like someone who's seen hell--just like he has. "Help isn't a dirty word, you know."

She snorts derisively. "Because you'd know anything about it."

"You never know," he replies, returning his attention to the paperwork. "I just might." He fills in the information on autopilot, and there is a jarring scrape as he pushes her chair away from her. "You know the drill. Stay put."

As he reaches for the door handle, her voice is soft, broken. "Mr. Cain."

Jeb turns, and she is standing, looking out the barred window toward the streets below, shoulders rolled forward in defeat.

"My name is Spencer."

* * *

_Splatter (100)_

**Artist**

She approaches the familiar shack cautiously, her footfalls on the fallen leaves heavy and loudly jarring to her ears.

Flashes of memory assault her as she nears. Two little girls, running, their eagerness giving them flight. A creatively inclined, smiling father lifting his dark haired daughter onto the counter and handing her a paintbrush. Nature and manmade colors meshing harmoniously; verdant greens, brilliant yellows and moody blues easing together into a brilliant palate.

But now, no matter where she looks, all she can see is bloodstained red and deathly tainted gray, and she falls to her knees, silently asking why.

* * *

_Elevate (100):_

**The Throne Room**

It was gloriously quiet.

Azkadellia felt like she could breathe for the first time; that her eyes were fully opened, no longer tainted by her mother's endless, trite speak about goodness and light.

She felt no wistfulness for days gone by. No memories or guilt imbued her. She was deliciously numb, but not coldly so. Instead, she was free. Unburdened. Unblemished.

That changed when she ascended the steps leading to the gilded throne, and she felt the thrill of victory. She looked down from the elevated dais, and proclaimed this to be _her_ kingdom.

Proclaimed herself to be the Sorceress.

* * *

_Feral (300):_

**To the Limit**

Her surroundings were hazy; the noises tinny. Her body felt light, like it was floating of its own volition.

There was no pain. There was barely comprehension. The only thing she knew was that her head was thick with a persistent fog. She didn't try to escape it, somehow knowing she was too tired to even try.

She was warm, comforted; content to float above and ignore the disorderly action that surrounded her.

But when the pain came, she could no longer hide. The fog blew away like smoke from a candle, and suddenly, there was screaming in her head and ringing in her ears. Her head pounded in time with her heartbeat, agonizing as it struck her repeatedly. She tried to run, but the reality was unavoidable.

She tried to focus on something else--_anything_ else. She caught snippets of terrified voices and urgent calls that echoed through familiarly acoustic hallways.

Her family, demanding to know what had happened. Her advisor, glitching as he tried to explain that her efforts to act as an emissary between the palace and the Papay runners had resulted only in her being viciously injured. The medic, telling them she needed emergency surgery--and a miracle.

She tried to call out, tried to find her voice in the void, but again failed. Darkness spread to her left, and light filtered on her right. She was caught in the stillness between--in between the pressing hurt of failing to fix a fractured OZ and knowing she had done everything she could think of; that some broken things were never meant to be mended.

She was being pulled toward the light, somehow knowing everyone would understand if she yielded one final time.

She stopped. Held on. Pulled herself back into the black, for her journey was not yet complete.

* * *

_Rejected (200):_

**The title is a shout out to my girl Allie.

**Coronation**

There were traditions, the influential loyalists said; things expected of her and the House. She needed to be officially reinstalled as Queen, reestablish her advisors and court. She and the Consort needed to renew their vows. The youngest Gale's miraculous return needed to be celebrated with a reclamation ball during which she would be introduced to the eligible sons from noble families.

Lavender heard all the suggestions; seriously considered some. But she was swift in her rejection of planning any festivities after the Eclipse. The last fifteen annuals could not be forgotten amid a night of party dresses and alcohol. Their limited time and exhausted funds were better spent on the general populace, not on aristocratic triviality.

This was not a time for merriment for some, when so many others were still mourning their losses.

They were stunned at first, quiet. And then the gentle prodding began. She supposed they thought it would have worked; it had, so many annuals ago. Their urging became insistent, heated, pressured. Uncomfortable. They expected her to yield.

She did not.

When she held up her hand to stop their objections--dismiss them completely--she became Queen again, and not in a lavish coronation. "It is settled."

* * *

_Smirk (100):_

**Attention**

The first time she saw Zero, it was at a formal inspection for the newly installed Longcoats.

It took her a moment to notice him, for he didn't act like any of the other soldiers. He didn't attempt to garner her attention, nor did he try to blend in. His eyes followed hers, where the other men either skillfully avoided her gaze or watched her warily, as her deadly impatience was well known. He had a relaxed smirk on his face, as though he already knew he'd passed her test.

He intrigued her. He worried her.

She kept him close.

* * *

_Delirious (100):_

**Greensburg references the EF-5 tornado that devastated a Kansas town on May 4, 2007.

**Greensburg Revisited**

He feels sick after the first 911 calls come in, reporting a tornado touching down near a very familiar address. It has to be a miscommunication, he thinks, panicked delirium in the days since Greensburg. The skies have been cloudy but rain free. No way it's a twister.

But he knows if there's anybody that could pluck a storm out of a clear sky, it's DG. He just hopes he gets the chance to berate her for disrupting his shift.

When the white farmhouse comes into focus against a foreboding green sky, his heart sinks and knows they are gone.

* * *

_Redemption (200):_

**Save Me**

No one asked you to save me.

No one told you I--or anybody else, for that matter--needed your help; that you were our last hope.

No one invited you in; no one proclaimed you welcome. No one challenged you to breathe life into a long dead man. No one asked you to believe in the unbelievable. No one asked you to have unwavering faith, to be a beacon in the darkest of times. No one asked you to feed a hungry soul or help a blind man see.

No one told you to rescue me or pull me from the all consuming depths of failure and despair. No one told you to leap into this without caring about the consequences. No one told you to wipe the slate clean, to forgive the unforgivable.

No one claimed that you were the embodiment of salvation, an angel with a steady hand to guide us through the loss and barren lands of a future once thought lost.

No one told you that you were my only hope.

No one asked you to care.

No one asked you to stay.

No one asked you to love me.

No one asked you to save me.

* * *

_Introduction (300):_

**This piece takes place in the "Antietam" 'verse.

**Knock on the Sky**

At the end of a long, humid summer afternoon, the Queen stood on the roof of the Central City palace, still for the first time that day. She knew she should be letting the newborn sleep, but there were important things to do first. And though common sense told her the baby couldn't see what she was pointing to, she somehow knew the little girl was paying rapt attention. As Queen--as _family_--it was her responsibility to make the introductions before the day was out.

Carefully, she pointed to the north. "You can't see it from here," she said softly, "but the Ice Palace is that way. We can build a snowman, if you want."

Moving to the westerly wall, she continued, "There are forests and fields that way, with wonderful flowers and fruit. And don't let anybody tell you that the Papay runners are scary. They're just…misunderstood."

She continued to walk, looking down into the little girl's eyes, so like her father's. "There are hundreds of lakes to the south, little one. I'll teach you to swim. And maybe we'll go fishing. You know," she added conversationally, "you were almost born there. But I'm glad your mom wanted to come back here, closer to the hospital. You get the grand tour this way."

She slowed as she faced eastward, her throat constricting. It was never easy to greet the morning, for the first part of the Zone that the sun lit held so much heartbreak. "Your dad's old house is that way," she finally said, part of her hopelessly and forever empty at the baby's loss. "I'm sure you'll go visit soon."

The baby let out a slight wail, and DG rocked her goddaughter slightly. "It's okay to miss him, sweetheart. Just remember that he loves you. We all do."

* * *

_A/N 2__: Can you believe it's been a full year since I posted "Running on Ice" and "Judas"? I can't. It's been such an amazing journey, both creatively and personally, and no words could ever express just how much fun I've had. There is so much wonderful fiction out there; I'm honored (and pretty dumbfounded) you take the time to read mine._

_That said, I do need to tell you all that I'm not sure when or if I'll update this collection again. I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that there are a lot of things I need to address right now, and the "Tin Man" 'verse isn't one of them. (Though, there might be "Mentalist" fic in my future, because DAMN, do I love that show.) I learned a long time ago never to say never, but right now, it feels like inspiration and the will to write is a long way off. So, again, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support. You guys are absolutely amazing and have made this one hell of a ride. _

_Best wishes to all of you, and I'll see you down the Old Road._

_--C_


	40. Ouroboros

_Author's Notes: It's amazing what a good prompt will do to wake up the muse again. This piece came from a prompt at the LJ community TM Challenge. The prompt was "Finaqua." It came in second place in voting, but more importantly, it's got me writing again. At least, a little bit. That said, hope you all have been well, and bring on the angst. :)_

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Back and forth. Left to right and back again. A straight line, never a circle, because she learned quickly in the days after she was wrenched from her bed and stripped of her freedom that circuitous motion is merely movement for movement's sake. There is little progress made in the monotony, and that is breathlessly dangerous; it's a noose hanging from the gallows, knotted and waiting for her pristine neck. She is deathly scared of what will happen to her if her captors--these devils once called men--are unsatisfied with her work.

So Azkadellia's mantra remains the same. Back and forth. Left to right and back again. Go with the grain of the wood and pretend you can get the remnants of the fallen off the floor and your hands. Keep the pain of kneeling and blisteringly hot water from showing on your face. Do not give them the satisfaction of seeing the fear that slithers down your spine, for if they see a snake ready to strike at a moment's notice, your tenuous stalemate may finally break.

She tries to manufacture an antidote of sorts. She tries to hold on to the few good memories she has; tries to convince herself that they can't take away anything else unless she lets them. She forces herself to remember what it used to be like at Finaqua, her former home and current prison. She can still smell the freesia that once grew along the banks of the lake. She can still see the rainbows the suns cast through the stained glass windows. She can still see her bare footprints on the marble floor of the ballroom where she attended her first royal function and had her first--and last--waltz.

It's a much safer place inside her daydreams, and that is her irony; for all the annuals she tried to escape her own head, she is now an expert at retreating into it. But visions of her and DG running down the halls, or sitting curled up in the library with an all-too large tome balanced precariously on her knees, seem to be the only thing that keeps her alive.

She's unsure of what's happened to her family or friends. She stopped begging for information weeks--or was it months?--ago. Not that the rebels ever seemed to hear her when she demanded an explanation. They slink back into the shadows like snakes hiding in reeds. She may not be able to see them, but she knows they're there; she can taste the vicious electricity in the air, can feel the telltale prickle of impatient revenge as it dots her skin as both sweat and gooseflesh. They are anxiously awaiting the day she tries to fight back, running across piles of broken china toward the splintered door, because then they'll have a reason to impose the punishment they've waited so long for.

She has the same conversation with herself each day: There is no giving up. There is only a bucket and a bristled brush, and back and forth, left to right and back again. There is only survival while they circle and wait to strike. There is only joy of her own making; the lullaby her mother taught her, or the single dance she shared with her father. These are her glimmers of hope, the things that keep her from becoming a venomous killer like the men who keep her--like the woman she used to be. She will not self-destruct, will not let her pain consume or swallow her whole.

* * *

They watch Azkadellia from the other side of the glass as she scrubs, rocking forward in time with her brush, moving back and forth, left to right and back again. There has been no change. Not that they'd expected there to be, but hope is a fickle friend, a painful siren that DG has not yet learned to ignore.

DG keeps her palm pressed against the observation glass as the doctors repeat what they've said every day for almost two annuals; Azkadellia has severed all ties with the reality outside her own head. The Other Side psychiatrists would call it Post-Traumatic Stress and a psychotic break. It doesn't matter _what_ they call it; the pain of losing Az is still unbearable. But still DG comes to the Central City hospital each week, calling out to her sister in desperation. But it seems the only things Azkadellia hears are the demons inside her own body.

She nods absently as Glitch tells her they need to head back to Finaqua to prepare for meetings the following day. With one final look toward her sister, DG quickly strides out of the observation room, tears again in her eyes, and again leaving Azkadellia broken in her stead.

FIN


End file.
